Not sure if what I heard was real,just for a moment,I thought I heard?Never mind,it's just a memory,fluttering round my head,tossing and turning,in it's cold and old dead bed,I can hear the sheets shuffle as it tosses and turns,I close the blinds to this memory,I know,and yes,it still burns.Not sure I heard you,yes I know your there,I'm not ignoring you,
I’ve ridden on the backs of creatures of the night,I’ve bathed in the holy glow of creatures of the light,but where do i stand,where do i belong,I stand between the lines of right and wrong,buit where do I belong.I’ve played in the forest, hidden amongst the trees,I’ve laughed on the hillsides, and ran thru the streets,but where do I stand,where do I belong,I’ve floated amongst the clouds at sunrise and sundown,but where do I belong.I have saved all the memorys,I have sung all the songs,but where do I stand,where do I belong,
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,And the YearOn the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,Is lying.Come, Months, come away,From November to May,In your saddest array;Follow the bierOf the dead cold Year,And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knellingFor the Year;The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
Now I knew I lost her --Not that she was gone --But Remoteness travelledOn her Face and Tongue.Alien, though adjoiningAs a Foreign Race --Traversed she though pausingLatitudeless Place.Elements Unaltered --Universe the sameBut Love's transmigration --Somehow this had come --Henceforth to rememberNature took the DayI had paid so much for --His is Penury
When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,And feathered pampas-grass rides into the windLike aged warriors westward, tragic, thinnedOf half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,--Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushesMy heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,And will be born again,--but ah, to seeBeauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!Oh, Autumn! Autumn!--What is the Spring to me?