My love hung a harp in the willow tree
Saying, "Winds can strum it instead of me
When they tiptoe over the hill
When I am gone."
It seems he is playing each tender note
That curves on the breeze from the Southwind's throat
And my tremulous heart grows still
In the hush of dawn.
How wise was my love in his love for me
To hang his harp in the willow tree!
