In the half-tone light of a young morning,
She sighs and shifts on the pillow.
And across her face dancing, the first shadows fly
To kiss the p____ Willow.

In her fairy-tale world, she's a lost soul singing
In a sad voice nobody hears.
She waits in her castle of make-believe
For her white knight to appear.

p____ Willow--down fur-lined avenue
Brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs for the train--see, eight o'clock's coming,
Cutting dreams down to size again.

p____ Willow--down fur-lined avenue
Brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming,
Cutting dreams down to size again.

She longs for the East and a pale dress flowing,
An apartment in old Mayfair,
Or to fish the Spey, spinning the first run of spring,
Or to die for a cause somewhere.

See also:
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