There's a whisper of life in the grey dead trees, And a murmuring wash on the shore, And a breath of the South in the loitering breeze, To tell that a winter is o'er. While free, at last, from its fetters of ice The river is clear and blue, And cries with a tremulous quivering voice For the launch of the White Canoe. Oh, gently the ripples will kiss her side, And tenderly bear her on; For she is the wandering phantom bride Of the river she rests upon; She is loved with a love that cannot forget, A passion so strong and true, That never a billow has risen yet To peril the White Canoe.…
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