Song | A Kinder Eye |
Artist | Level 42 |
Album | Guaranteed |
Download | Image LRC TXT |
作词 : Green, King | |
In his widowed years of longing, in his windowed room of light | |
He lay the oil upon the canvas, brought sweet memory to life | |
His speckled beard a brush of colour, his spotted hands both grace and speed | |
I was the boy who came with evening, to sweep his floors and bring his tea | |
To the world he was the master, his landscapes filled the gallery halls | |
But now he painted only portraits, unframed upon his private walls | |
Subjects sitting-walking-laughing in playful flight or soft refrain | |
A thousand forms and colours, but every face the same | |
Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history bleeds | |
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream | |
A winter's night when i arrived there, he looked so tired and near the end | |
And as i cleaned his bench and brushes, i wished out loud to be like him | |
He said that art was only longing, trying to do what can't be done | |
And though he'd signed a thousand paintings, still he'd never finished one | |
As i finished up my sweeping, in his sleep he spoke her name | |
I looked again at all the portraits, each and every face the same | |
Not as she was in pain or sorrow, but in timeless beauty seen | |
As she served his noble dream | |
Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history bleeds | |
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream |
zuo ci : Green, King | |
In his widowed years of longing, in his windowed room of light | |
He lay the oil upon the canvas, brought sweet memory to life | |
His speckled beard a brush of colour, his spotted hands both grace and speed | |
I was the boy who came with evening, to sweep his floors and bring his tea | |
To the world he was the master, his landscapes filled the gallery halls | |
But now he painted only portraits, unframed upon his private walls | |
Subjects sittingwalkinglaughing in playful flight or soft refrain | |
A thousand forms and colours, but every face the same | |
Across the page across the ages the moving hand of history bleeds | |
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream | |
A winter' s night when i arrived there, he looked so tired and near the end | |
And as i cleaned his bench and brushes, i wished out loud to be like him | |
He said that art was only longing, trying to do what can' t be done | |
And though he' d signed a thousand paintings, still he' d never finished one | |
As i finished up my sweeping, in his sleep he spoke her name | |
I looked again at all the portraits, each and every face the same | |
Not as she was in pain or sorrow, but in timeless beauty seen | |
As she served his noble dream | |
Across the page across the ages the moving hand of history bleeds | |
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream |
zuò cí : Green, King | |
In his widowed years of longing, in his windowed room of light | |
He lay the oil upon the canvas, brought sweet memory to life | |
His speckled beard a brush of colour, his spotted hands both grace and speed | |
I was the boy who came with evening, to sweep his floors and bring his tea | |
To the world he was the master, his landscapes filled the gallery halls | |
But now he painted only portraits, unframed upon his private walls | |
Subjects sittingwalkinglaughing in playful flight or soft refrain | |
A thousand forms and colours, but every face the same | |
Across the page across the ages the moving hand of history bleeds | |
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream | |
A winter' s night when i arrived there, he looked so tired and near the end | |
And as i cleaned his bench and brushes, i wished out loud to be like him | |
He said that art was only longing, trying to do what can' t be done | |
And though he' d signed a thousand paintings, still he' d never finished one | |
As i finished up my sweeping, in his sleep he spoke her name | |
I looked again at all the portraits, each and every face the same | |
Not as she was in pain or sorrow, but in timeless beauty seen | |
As she served his noble dream | |
Across the page across the ages the moving hand of history bleeds | |
... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream |