| There’s a wrinkle in the water
|
| Where we laid our first daughter
|
| And I think the wind blows so sweetly there
|
| Over there
|
| And the windows and the cinders
|
| And the willows in the timbers
|
| The infernal rattling of the rain
|
| Still remains
|
| «But I» said the bachelor to the bride
|
| «Am not waiting for tonight
|
| No, I will box your ears
|
| And leave you here stripped bare.»
|
| Hear the corncrakes and the deerhooves
|
| And the sleet rain on the slate roof
|
| A medallion locked inside her hands
|
| In her hands
|
| And his fingers are they telling
|
| Of the barren of her belly
|
| And his callouses cure her furrowed brow
|
| Even now
|
| «But I,» said the bachelor to the bride
|
| «am not waiting for tonight
|
| No, I will box your ears
|
| And leave you here stripped bare.»
|
| «But I,» said the bachelor to the bride
|
| «am not waiting for tonight
|
| No, I will box your ears
|
| And take your tears
|
| And leave you, leave you here
|
| Stripped bare.» |