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The Steeple

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  • The Steeple

    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