 | Songs of the Seasons |  |
Caravans, with wealth untold
Laden, cross my daily path.
Hill and valley, steep and strath,
Are aglow with sheaves of gold.
To the far horizon's line,
You, the ardent mountain-sitter,
May pursue the waving glitter
Casting life into the brine.
Laden, cross my daily path.
Hill and valley, steep and strath,
Are aglow with sheaves of gold.
To the far horizon's line,
You, the ardent mountain-sitter,
May pursue the waving glitter
Casting life into the brine.
| Songs of the Seasons | |