Walking through a half-dead ash grove, the speaker feels an unaccountable welcome and a gladness without cause. The short path under the trees—each step sweeter than long miles—becomes a sheltered interval where even the restless spirits of memory and fear cannot reach him. He passes a wall without noticing, as if briefly sealed in a pocket of peace. Half-dead, the trees still offer a strange, full comfort.
Later, another ash grove far away summons that same tranquillity. He wanders like a ghost with a ghostly gladness, half-hearing a girl sing the old song ‘The Ash Grove’—soft as love untroubled. The moment reveals something unwilling to die, a gift of pure contentment that came without search, merit, or cost. The mood is quiet and haunting, a remembered stillness that feels both lost and forever within reach.