Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter

There was such speed in her small body
And such lightness in her footfall
It is no wonder her brown study
Astonishes us all, us all

The bells at noon
March us to her grave
And death comes soon
And no one can be saved

Her wars were bruited in our window
We looked among orchard trees and beyond
Where she took arms against her shadow
Or harried geese unto the pond, the pond

The bells at noon
March us to her grave
And death comes soon
And no one can be saved

Like a snow cloud dripping its snow on the green grass
Tricking and stopping
Sleepy and proud
Cried in goose, Alas!

For the tireless heart within her
And with her rod she made them rise
From their apple-dreams and scuttle
These geese under the skies, the skies

There go the bells and we are ready
In one house we're sternly stopped
To say we're vexed at her brown study
Lying here so primly propped

The bells at noon
March us to her grave
And death comes soon
And no one can be saved



Credits
Writer(s): Ari Ktorza, John Crowe Ransom, Yuval Levy
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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