Lyrics
Created from the poem "By the Fireside" by Robert Browning
And we stand in the heart of things,
the woods are around us,
you can think!
Life, through the ravage,
some torrent, brings
the thread of water,
simple and slim;
does it feed the little lake below?
Father rolled fresh
mushrooms undivulged,
yon sudden coral nipple buldged
for a freaky faun-colored
flaky crew of toad stools,
deep indulged.
Here we walk, then, side by side,
arm in arm,
and cheek to cheek;
while my heart convulsed
to really speak,
lay choking in it's pride.
Silent, the crumbling bridge
we cross,
and being afraid,
we must get rid of what it knows,
it1t bosom so diseased.
Poor little place,
on a festive day;
the splash of blood in time,
and thorny balls.
It's better that the silence grows,
that small birds sing;
strained to a bell
against noon day glare-
you could count
the streaks and rings.
I follow wherever I'm led,
and pass out where it ends.
In the long dark autumn
evenings come,
and my soul is thoughtless, in tune,
the music of all the voices;
there's life in November, too.
Now then, out we slip,
turn the page,
all the shudders flap,
crosswinds blow;
I shall be found
by the fire, in repose.
Then I take the same path back
to an age so blessed that
it seems a waste of the land.
I look through the windows,
great and square,
you think you see it
And wish for our souls
to be like trees.
If I but think deep enough
piercing it's fond flesh snow
on the sheer edge,
we reach the gulge
where youth rocks,
one inch from the ledge.
The life safe and old,
and the spirits small, and proping it;
you'd be, my heart knows.
What did I say, all day long;
to satisfy life's daily thirst,
or just for the obvious human bliss.
I break the solitude in vain,
the woods are around us,
heaped and dim,
a turn,
and we stand in the heart of things.
From slab to slab
how it slips and springs,
the thread of water,
simple and slim,
through the ravage
some torrent brings;
Oh, the scent
of the yellow mountain flower,
one thorny ball each;
breathe.
If, way up in the Alpine gorge,
is it a tower,
or is it a mill,
or an iron fort?
Little white speck,
the inside archway widens fast,
play it for show
on the needle matted moss;
on the other side is the straight up rock,
and the cliff, and the gorge,
and it,
small ferns fit;
and even my heart knows how.
