| When the morning of your eyes comes waking through my shadows
|
| Leaving just a trace of twilight sleep,
|
| I whisper to the baby raindrops playing on my window,
|
| And tell them gently this is not the time that they should weep.
|
| For somewhere in my mind there is a painting box,
|
| I have every colour there it’s true.
|
| Just lately when I look inside my painting box,
|
| I seem to pick the colours of you.
|
| My Friday evening’s foot-steps plodding dully through this black town,
|
| Are far away now from the world that I’m in.
|
| My eyes are listening to some sounds that I think just might be springtime,
|
| With daffodils between my toes I’m laughing at their whim,
|
| And somewhere in my mind there is a painting box,
|
| I have every colour there it’s true,
|
| Just lately when I look inside my painting box,
|
| I seem to pick the colorus of you.
|
| Oh, somewhere in my mind there is a painting box,
|
| I have every colour there it’s true.
|
| Just lately when I look inside my painting box,
|
| I seem to pick the colours of you.
|
| The purple sail above me catches all the strength of summer.
|
| Fishes stop and ask me where I am bound.
|
| I smile and shake my head and say my little ship is sinking,
|
| But I kind of like the sea that I’m on, and I don’t mind if I do drown.
|
| For somewhere in my mind there is a painting box,
|
| I have every colour there it’s true.
|
| Just lately when I look inside my painting box,
|
| I seem to pick the colours of you. |