| Among the oak and the ash there grows
|
| Flower in the Fall
|
| And so it is that love itself
|
| Story I’ve been told
|
| Of carpenters and kings alike
|
| Of rich men and of poor
|
| Some will travel this whole wide world
|
| And seek out nothing more
|
| If I could live a thousand years
|
| I would not rightly know
|
| The workings of true love’s heart
|
| Why she had to go
|
| I asked her parents where she was
|
| They just stood there cold
|
| So without reply I turned around
|
| And I was never told
|
| Winter passed and Spring revealed
|
| Summer had an end
|
| A letter came to me today
|
| Written in her hand
|
| «By dear, forgive me
|
| I cannot ask enough
|
| I understand now every soul
|
| That ever died for love
|
| I understand now every soul
|
| That ever died for love» |