|
the poet's voice lingers on |
|
his words hanging in the air |
|
the ground you walk upon |
|
might as well not be there |
|
might as well not be there |
|
I'll take you through my dreams |
|
out into the darkest morning |
|
past the blood-filled streams |
|
into the garden of Jane Delawnay |
|
into her garden now |
|
through the rose if there |
|
don't pluck it as you pass |
|
or the fire will consume your hair |
|
and your eyes will turn to glass |
|
your eyes will turn to glass |
|
in the willow's shade |
|
don't lie to hear it weep |
|
or its tears of gold and jade |
|
will drown you as you sleep |
|
will drown you now |
|
Jane Delawnay had her dreams |
|
that she never did discover |
|
for the flow that feeds the streams |
|
is the lifeblood of her lover |
|
is the lifeblood of her lover |
|
and the purifying beams |
|
of the sun will shine here never |
|
while the spirit of her dreams |
|
in the garden lives forever |
|
lives forever now |
