[Music: Bergholtz, Dinsdale, Svensson]
|
[Lyrics taken from Walter De La Mare's "The Green Room"]
|
|
Tomorrow waits me at my gates
|
while all my yesterdays swarm near
|
And one mouth whines, too late,
|
too late and one is dumb with fear
|
|
Was this the all that life could give
|
Me, who from cradle hungered on,
|
body and soul aflame to live,
|
giving my all and then be gone
|
|
Have done with moaning, idiot heart
|
if it so be that love has wings,
|
I with my shears will find an art
|
to still her flutterings
|
|
Wrench of that bandage to will I
|
and show the wimp she's blind indeed
|
Hot irons shall prove my mastery
|
She shall not weep but bleed
|
|
And when at last I journey where,
|
all thought of you I must resign
|
Will the least memory of me be fair
|
or will you even my ghost malign
|
|
I wake and watch when the moon is here,
|
a shadow tracks me on
|
And I, darker than my shadow,
|
fear her fabulous inconsistency
|
|
Have done with moaning, idiot heart
|
if it so be that love has wings,
|
I with my shears will find an art
|
to still her flutterings
|
|
Your maddening face befools my eyes
|
Your hand I wake to feel
|
Lost in deep midnight's black surmise
|
its touch my veins congeal
|
|
And when at last I journey where,
|
all thought of you I must resign
|
Will the least memory of me be fair
|
or will you even my ghost malign
|
|
-----------------
|
Moaning Idiot Heart
|
| Sacrilege |
