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.
So come when the moon is enthroned in the sky,
And the echoes are sweet and low,
And Nature is full of the mystery
That none but her children know;
Come, taste of the rest that the weary crave,
But is only revealed to a few:
When there's trouble on shore, there's peace on the wave,
Afloat in the White Canoe.