The Farm House by the River

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

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 poplars 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 giver 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 heeded!
Perhaps amid the angels' bliss,
            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 dies 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 desolate
            The farm house by the river.