The Ash Grove

HALF of the grove stood dead, and those that yet

lived made

Little more than the dead ones made of shade.

If they led to a house, long before they had seen

its fall:

But they welcomed me; I was glad without cause

and delayed.

Scarce a hundred paces under the trees was the

Interval--

Paces each sweeter than sweetest miles--but

nothing at all,

Not even the spirits of memory and fear with

restless wing,

Could climb down in to molest me over the wall

That I passed through at either end without

noticing.

And now an ash grove far from those hills can bring

The same tranquillity in which I wander a ghost

With a ghostly gladness, as if I heard a girl sing

The song of the Ash Grove soft as love uncrossed,

And then in a crowd or in distance it were lost,

But the moment unveiled something unwilling

to die

And I had what most I desired, without search or

desert or cost.