| A strong power calls from the left hand
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| Across the waters deep
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| a strong power calls from the left hand
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| let all things sleep or weep
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| oh the queen of love, you have unwove my eyes
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| and my heart will not sleep
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| the eye would sleep but the mind would rise
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| I must needs walk down God’s eyebrows
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| and along the street of his eyes
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| look for me and you will see me in my red cloak
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| swimming determined
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| as God’s blood flows
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| creatures of grief you beg from the thief
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| I will not carry home your sacks of sorrow
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| but I will pay the fiddler good silver if he smiles
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| pray God he see tomorrow
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| and the fine fine girls that are into it and my eyes with salt water swim
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| and we disputing with a brittle gaiety
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| upon the world’s rim
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| if I sought to love you with my body
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| it would be with a bent back
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| unto the day of doom
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| Oh the Queen of Love
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| I am in her heart
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| she is in my room
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| and together alone we clasp hands
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| and in each other’s eyes walk the endless shore
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| and below I have my duty to perform in the song
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| and that that I was
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| you will see it no more
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| the snow is on the hills of my heart
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| and to speak is to die
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| the men at arms do seek to mark me and the monks raise hue and cry
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| seek me in vain on Golgotha
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| or in fear’s hollow
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| for the way I take today
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| only the true may follow
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| the ancestors in stone armour
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| calling for loyalty untrue
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| seek to make a zigzag of the arrow’s flight
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| it is so swaddled in the bands of form
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| but I am girdled with the storm
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| and cloaked with the night
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| I am not to be seen or found
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| save only in what I cause
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| standing outside on the inside outside
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| perfectingness and flaws
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| how will I say where I end
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| or where you begin
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| how will I say, what shall I play
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| shall it be you or the wild wind
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| as Pan with the unsane eyes
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| or with the wild horns
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| or when I am crowned with the paper crown
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| or with the crown of thorns
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| a strong power compels distortion from the right hand
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| fleece to the grey wolves
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| fangs to the grey sheep
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| but the Queen of Love she strokes
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| my body alive, that I do not sleep.
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| The doctor brews potions and pills
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| to open his own front door
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| and the locksmith makes strong bolts
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| to bar his gates to every new breeze that blows
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| shall I now put lion’s ears upon my ears
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| hear every sound as a roar
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| shall I now put mouse’s eyes upon my eyes
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| gauge the moon for size against my paw
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| while the Queen of Love
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| she sings to me from above and beyond the world
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| and I observe my mind
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| it is playing ignorant boy
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| while at her feet I am curled
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| and I remember all female movements so well
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| of such a form to bring much joy and ease much care
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| to perfume and let fall the coloured gown
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| and to let down the curling hair.
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| But now I play seed thrower
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| and I will play three-legged man
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| I will play dream weaver and day bringer
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| and catch as catch can
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| While the Queen of Love
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| she swims like a silver dove in my mind’s room
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| and my body sleepwalks down the road
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| in a warm dark swoon |