| No more walks in the wood
|
| The trees have all been cut down
|
| And where once they stood
|
| Not even a wagon rut
|
| Appears along the path
|
| Low brush is taking over
|
| No more walks in the wood
|
| This is the aftermath
|
| Of afternoons in the clover fields
|
| Where we once made love
|
| Then wandered home together
|
| Where the trees arched above
|
| Where we made our own weather
|
| When branches were the sky
|
| Now they are gone for good
|
| And you, for ill, and I
|
| Am only a passer-by
|
| We and the trees and the way
|
| Back from the fields of play
|
| Lasted as long as we could
|
| No more walks in the wood |