The Publisher
THE singing white-throat poured my gladness out,
And spread my golden wonder through the trees,
That day when Love burned the dead leaves of doubt,
And sifted sorrow’s ashes to the breeze.
My soul sat in her sunshine by the door
While her sweet spokesman told it o’er and o’er.
And spread my golden wonder through the trees,
That day when Love burned the dead leaves of doubt,
And sifted sorrow’s ashes to the breeze.
My soul sat in her sunshine by the door
While her sweet spokesman told it o’er and o’er.