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Roger Whittaker
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The Ash Grove
The ash grove, how graceful, how plainly to speaking The harp through it playing has language for me; Whenever the light through its branches is breaking, A host of kind faces is gazing on me, The friends of my childhood again are before me. Each step wakes a memory as freely I roam. With soft whispers laden its leaves rustle o'er me, The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.
My lips smile no more; my heart loses its lightness, No dream of the future my spirit can cheer. I only can brood on the past and its brightness. The dead I have mourned are again living here. From every dark nook they press forward to meet me; I lift up my eyes to the broad leafy dome, And others are there, looking downward to greet me. The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.
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