The Meadow Rue
by Arlo Bates

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.