I know a little country place
  Where still my heart doth linger,
And o'er its fields is every grace
  Lined out by memory's finger.
Back from the lane where poplars grew
  And aspens quake and quiver,
There stands all bath'd in summer's glow
  A farm house by the river.

Its eaves are touched with golden light
  So sweetly, softly shining,
And morning glories full and bright
  About the doors are twining.
And there endowed with every grace
  That nature's hand could giver her,
There lived the angel of the place
  In the farm house by the river.

Her eyes were blue, her hair was gold,
  Her face was bright and sunny;
The songs that from her bosom rolled
  Were sweet as summer's honey.
And I loved her well, that maid divine,
  And I prayed the Gracious Giver,
That I some day might call her mine
  In the farm house by the river.

Twas not to be -- but God knows best.
  His will for aye be heeded!
Perhaps amid the angels' bliss,
  My little love was needed.
Her spirit from its thralldom torn
  Went singing o'er the river,
And that sweet life my heart shall mourn
  Forever and forever.

She dies one morn at early light
  When all the birds are singing,
And Heaven itself in pure delight
  Its bells of joy seemed ringing.
They laid her dust where soon and late
  The solemn grasses quiver,
And left alone and desolate
  The farm house by the river.