Startled she, from quiet slumber.
Aroused from sleep by something other...
Shaking wearily her head,
What was that sound,
That faintest scratching...
That she heard above her bed?
It was her prince, he's come again...
To steal away what they call sin.
This precious gift, this fay of night.
This can't be wrong, this feels too right.
So hours run like water flows.
They've got but four to make their own.
For when that evil clock strikes past.
It's to the carriage driving fast.
To take the maiden back to where.
She lives and breathes and combs her hair.
With locks so long and beauty true.
They grace his morrow's slumber too.
Until he wakes that lonely day without her light.
Till next they meet - at their midnight...