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;