All the riders on the rise
|
and circlers from every side.
|
All the riders on the rise
|
and circlers from every side.
|
|
Eyes up!
|
Light floods around
|
in a yellow shadow after night comes down
|
in a dull dumb swipe.
|
And all's white.
|
Fire painting on the pines,
|
and hawks above the timber-line,
|
and water weeping from the ice.
|
|
Heat is lost. Winter rocks into a lonely boxwood grove.
|
And quiet snowfall smothers all of the lawns
|
where the ladies coughed and cried,
|
"I don't want to be here when it's time!"
|
|
The dying stag is on his side.
|
The hunters are hiding, up on high.
|
The wind is beating through the briars.
|
|
Waves on the graves of the saints.
|
Dull grey as the sea pushes land away.
|
Dull ache when you wake.
|
Grey smoke shows the way you walk
|
down by when it's time.
|
I don't want to be here
|
when it's time to go
|
down, or I don't want to go
|
down there alone.
|
Down down down down
|
down down down down
|
down down
|
down down
|
down down
|
down down
|
down
|
down
|
ooooh.
|
|
-----------------
|
The Rise
|
| Okkervil River |
