THE ASH GROVE
John Oxenford (19th cent)

The ash grove how graceful, how plainly 'tis speaking
The harp through its playing has language for me.
Whenever the light through its branches is breaking,
A host of kind faces is gazing on me.
The friends from my childhood again are before me
Each step wakes a memory as freely I roam.
With soft whispers laden the leaves rustle o’er me
The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.

Down yonder green meadow where streamlets meander
When twilight is fading I pensively roam
Or in the bright noon tide in solitude wander
Amid the dark spaces of that lonely ash grove.
‘Twas there while the black bird was cheerfully singing
I first met my dear one the joy of my heart
Around us for gladness the blue bells were springing
The ash grove, the ash grove that sheltered my home.

My lips smile no more, my heart loses its lightness;
No dream of the future my spirit can cheer.
I only can brood on the past and its brightness
The dear ones I long for again gather here.
From ev'ry dark nook they press forward to meet me;
I lift up my eyes to the broad leafy dome,
And others are there, looking downward to greet me
The ash grove, the ash grove, again is my home.

-oo0oo-

Next post here - Monday

On Sunday at Thomas Hardy the Wessex Poet - the concluding poems in the Satires of Circumstance series
http://thewessexpoet.blogspot.com

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