| <Iris DeMent> page <The Trackless Woods> album page |
Upon the Hard CrestUpon the hard crest of a snowdriftWe tread and, grown quiet, we walk On towards my house, white, enchanted Our mood is too tender for talk Sweeter than song is this dream now Come true, the low boughs of the firs Sway as we brush them in passing The slight silver clink of your spurs |