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.
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The meadow rue", appears in A Flower Cycle, no. 9, first published 1892 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by George Whitefield Chadwick (1854 - 1931), "The meadow rue", 1892 [voice and piano], from A Flower Cycle, no. 10. [text verified 1 time]
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2009-06-17
Line count: 20
Word count: 143