O The Wind Is Blowing, It Hurts Your Skin

As You Climb Up Hillside, Forest And Fen.



Your Arms Full Of Lullabies, Orchids And Wine

Your Memories Wrapped Within Paper And Twine.



The Room That You Lie In Is Dusty And Hard

Sleeping Soft Babies On Piles Of Yards

Of Gingham, Taffeta, Cotton And Silk

Your Dry Hungry Mouths Cry For Your Mother's Milk.



When The Dawn Comes To Greet You, You'll Rise With Clothes On

And Advance With The Others, Singing Old Songs

Of Cattle And Maidens And Withered Old Queens.

Let The Music Carry You On.



The Room That You Lie In Is Dusty And Hard

Sleeping Soft Babies On Piles Of Yards

Of Gingham, Taffeta, Cotton And Silk

Your Dry Hungry Mouths Cry For Your Mother's Milk.