To be a bee, a moth
Four wings spread for the soft last touch
Of glory sun
Remembering blood plums and lips and lemons
One hundred different suns
In a hundred different heavens
Spied from a rowboat, stroke
And nought is spoken
Before you know it the spell is broken
You might wonder where you are
Floating on the reservoir
I have counted the notes
We landed here not many years ago
And it was not a pretty song that we composed
La la la, the early bird he knows
You hang from the cherry bough
When you're lichen yourself, and leave
The cold cold scent of stone and mulch
A great stone wall to stave the rush
To think that peace might be too much
Waiting for the giant
touch.
The lake, the fir fringed lake
Placid and ample, birded, breezed and dappled
Through the mountain break
Through the mountain break
A moment, take a moment, a moment
You might wonder where you are
Perched above the reservoir
Adolf in the White hotel
All this time we've been in hell
You might wonder where you are
Perched above the reservoir
Luis of the Lake retire
Before they set the lake on fire
Before they set the lake on fire
Before they set the lake on fire.