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Paul Laurence Dunbar - The Farm House By The River
Work rating: Medium

               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.
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