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.