Tweet
These empty halls they speak my name
And I follow their familiar cadence
To a place my heart knows poorly
But my head can never get enough of
A churchyard bare with groves of willow trees
Where the headstones are my only company
Inscribed upon their crumbling faces
Are the eulogies of every moment lost to me
In the moonlight everything is white,
But the blanket of the sky is always gray
And as I cross alone the lawn tonight
I sometimes see a phantom floating right beside
And very rarely he will smile at me
But his soft face never looks quite real
Though his pursed lips never part it seems,
Under the teardrops of the willow trees he sings
Take me to the steeple, where those ancient bells resound with rest
I'll make the kneeling board my pillow and the hymnody my lullaby
Take me to the steeple, whose loft is full of silken gowns
Where the air is full of aria and the floor with brass resounds
And as I walk along that well trod path
An ancient cross above me stands alone
It's perched atop that steeple dear
But never fades through every fading year
I know the shape through foggy eyes
In each procession through the endless night
The steeple cross was my first sight
So white and silver in the starlight
With the steeple doors in sight
The black inside the sanctuary calls
And with one last look my dead eyes see
A phantom staring softly back at me
And in some pool or pond, I understand
That I was the phantom beneath the willow trees
And though my pursed lips never part, it seems,
Beneath the teardrops of the willow trees I sing
And I follow their familiar cadence
To a place my heart knows poorly
But my head can never get enough of
A churchyard bare with groves of willow trees
Where the headstones are my only company
Inscribed upon their crumbling faces
Are the eulogies of every moment lost to me
In the moonlight everything is white,
But the blanket of the sky is always gray
And as I cross alone the lawn tonight
I sometimes see a phantom floating right beside
And very rarely he will smile at me
But his soft face never looks quite real
Though his pursed lips never part it seems,
Under the teardrops of the willow trees he sings
Take me to the steeple, where those ancient bells resound with rest
I'll make the kneeling board my pillow and the hymnody my lullaby
Take me to the steeple, whose loft is full of silken gowns
Where the air is full of aria and the floor with brass resounds
And as I walk along that well trod path
An ancient cross above me stands alone
It's perched atop that steeple dear
But never fades through every fading year
I know the shape through foggy eyes
In each procession through the endless night
The steeple cross was my first sight
So white and silver in the starlight
With the steeple doors in sight
The black inside the sanctuary calls
And with one last look my dead eyes see
A phantom staring softly back at me
And in some pool or pond, I understand
That I was the phantom beneath the willow trees
And though my pursed lips never part, it seems,
Beneath the teardrops of the willow trees I sing