Day came like a dove to the apple trees and the wheat. Her feathers were golden as love and silver her feet. A song or a show'r shook the sweet leaf shadows apart, and like the white moth on the flow'r clung the dream to my heart. And I know not now what the dawn made dear to me there, but gold was the light on the bough, and silver the air.
- by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall (1883 - 1922) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 6
Word count: 72