I said goodbye to the fields of the Summertime, The loud cries of the village fair. The mist in the vale by the rising sun, To the Girl with the Titian Hair. I said farewell to the Brooks and the Cottage near, To the birds and the songs they do share. The walks in the dusk after long sultry days, To the Girl with the Titian Hair. A lasting look to the Larkspur and the Rose, And the scent that give all to the air, The Oak by the lane where I spoke of the Heart, To the Girl with the Titian Hair. I said goodbye to the Sun setting far in the West, For the Eve's were all burnished and rare. Where she told of her Love for another in wait, For the Girl with the Titian Hair. Now when the frost and the snow of the wintertime come, To strip the dress of the Countryside bare, I will think of a love one Summer Time past. To the Girl with the Titian Hair.
So this is Love and the Rich Vein it applied,
The Byronic Verse and Blue April skies.
All thoughts of you are maddeningly hectic,
Thoroughly charged like ‘Dylan' gone electric.
The Dormer Windows open wide,
And views the yawning countryside.
For beyond the glare of the familiar pane,
A Tableau spread of life in train.
Porcelain face, clear eyes set in blue,
The hair no barber could tame.
In love with a girl in the gamine kind of style,
Oh I wish I was Eighteen once again.
To the phone users lift up your heads;
For you appear as mourners in prayer for the dead.
Look all around where Nature is shown;
Where Colour and Scent are by Gaia once Sown.
And so it was in early May; where the Season's Fancies brightly played.
There were shards of light throughout the lane, For the Sun had found its youth again.
To play among the Oak and Yew, and entomb it's light in Meadow dew.
In the layered mist about the glade;
When Love came it took hold of me completely,
Like a thousand cry's of ‘YES' it just ran up to greet me.
Out of all the Hearts in all the World she had to walk into mine,
It's the Oh I don't think we're in Kansas anymore kind.
Amongst the row upon row of polished shelf's,
The Books all patiently stand in file.
Their stories and facts make up their wealth,
And whatever else their leaves compile.
So here I am waiting for the damn bus,
A perfect portrait depicting my life up to date.
And throughout the world people are creating such wonderful things,
But it appears wasting my time was to be my just fate.