by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918)

The meadow rue
Language: English 
The tall white rue stands like a ghost 
That sighs for days departed, 
Ere life's woes gathered like a host 
And sorrow's tears had started. 
And 't is, oh, to be a child again 
Where meadow brooks are playing, 
Where the long grass nods with sound like rain 
To south wind through it straying ! 
Oh, the rue grows tall and fair to see ; 
Sweet "herb of grace" and memory. 

The white rue trembles as it stands, 
As if some spirit seeing, 
As if it yearned toward unseen hands 
Some loved one near, but fleeing. 
And 't is, oh, to taste lost youth once more, 
When well-loved lips were meeting ; 
When the heart was light that now is sore. 
Nor dreamed love's bliss is fleeting. 
Oh, the rue grows tall and fair to see ; 
Sweet "herb of grace" and memory. 

Authorship

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2009-06-17
Line count: 20
Word count: 143