All the riders on the rise
And circlers from every side.
All the riders on the rise
And circlers from every side.
Eyes up!
Light floods around in a yellow shadow
After night comes down

I a ground-whirl fall
Into a dull dumb swipe.
And all's white.
Fire painting on the pines,
Hawks above the timber-line,
Water weeping from the ice.
Fire painting on the pines,
Water weeping from the ice.
Heat is lost.
Winter rocks into a lonely boxwood grove.
And quiet snowfall smothers all of the lawns

Where the ladies coughed and cried,
"I don't want to be there when it's time!"

The dying stag is on his side.
The hunters are hiding, up on high.
The wind is beating through the briars.
The dying stag is on his side.
The hunters are hiding, up on high.
The wind is beating through the briars.
Waves on the graves of the saints.
Dull grey as the sea pushes land away.

Dull ache when you wake.
Grey smoke shows the way you walk
Down by when it's time.
I don't want to be there
When it's time to go down,

Down, I don't want to go
Down there alone.

Down, down, I don't want to go

Down there alone.