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On that morning When the chains of frost in which the strong flood were bound are loosed Between thousands of green fingers stretching towards the sun And the spell of snow banished by the sweet song of birds On that morning I shall return to you. But we've still a winter's cutting to drive downstream Through the deadly white rapids and hard rocks Until we reach the mills where the waters quieten On that morning I shall return to you. When the summer grass grows high and lush on the hills And the meadows are decked in flowers that sway to and fro And the gentle laughter of the girls is softly in my ears On that morning I shall return to you. But the wages of spring are already scattered to the winds And farmers with uncut hay seek free hands When we've brought in the harvest after the day's toil On that morning I shall return to you. When the golden mountains bleed onto the valley And the mist rises from the lake and floats among the trees And the smell of snow is strong on the north wind On that morning I shall return to you. But the echoes of the axes can be heard in the wood Drowning out the sound of your sweet voice in my mind And my fire prophesies that I'll never see you And that I'll never again return to you. |
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