Now that they look so peaceful lying dead?
And is it all the hope of Joy we have,
The broken trophies of the things she gave
And took away to give us dreams instead?
And is it all the hope of Joy we have,
The broken trophies of the things she gave
And took away to give us dreams instead?
The things we love and lose before we find
The way to love them well enough and keep,
That now are woven on the looms of sleep
That now are only music of the wind.
The way to love them well enough and keep,
That now are woven on the looms of sleep
That now are only music of the wind.
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