| In the consecrated chambers |
| Of a mountain’s winter day |
| I left her at the turning |
| To go on her seeking way |
| To pass o’er meadows green and bare |
| Or brown as her auburn hair |
| O’er all the waters on the face of the earth |
| To find that I really care |
| And the myriad reflections of myself |
| In her buttons on her oversize navy coat |
| But only reflections and never an image |
| In her mind’s unfathomable moat |
| But some castles where she wanders |
| Are yet crumbling into dust |
| In this house of visions, on top of the hill |
| The glass has turned to rust |
| So never again will I look in her eyes |
| Nor shall she hear my voice |
| But I hope she will find a better man |
| To love him and rejoice |
| And he will turn the secret key |
| Nay, I know it’s not up to him |
| But somehow in his words and love |
| Answer her every whim |
| So seek ye lass for what you wish |
| But in your troubled heart |
| And let not your mind race ahead of your breast |
| For the quicker shall you part |
| And wait for the click that you speak dear of |
| And never will you run |
| Light will splinter through open clouds |
| And you’ll look straight at a face like the sun |