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.