The Farm House By The River

I know a little country place              Where still my heart doth linger,              And o'er its fields is every grace              Lined out by memory's finger.              Back from the lane where poplar grew              And aspens quake and quiver,              There stands all bath'd in summer's glow              A farm house by the river.              Its eaves are touched with golden light              So sweetly, softly shining,              And morning-glories full and bright              About the doors are twining.              And there endowed with every grace              That nature's hand could give her,              There lived the angel of the place              In the farm house by the river.              Her eyes were blue, her hair was gold,              Her face was bright and sunny;              The songs that from her bosom rolled              Were sweet as summer's honey.              And I loved her well, that maid divine,              And I prayed the Gracious Giver,              That I some day might call her mine              In the farm house by the river.              'Twas not to be—but God knows best,              His will for aye be heed!              Perhaps amid the angels blest,              My little love was needed.              Her spirit from its thralldom torn              Went singing o'er the river,              And that sweet life my heart shall mourn              Forever and forever.              She died one morn at early light              When all the birds are singing,              And heaven itself in pure delight              Its bells of joy seemed ringing.              They laid her dust where soon and late              The solemn grasses quiver,              And left alone and disolate              The farm house by the river.