She is a weaver. Through her hands the bright thread travels. Blue green water, willows weeping, silver stars. . She sings and sighs as the shuttle flies.
I packed up my bags. Put in my favorite Levis. Laid my mandolin beside the door. Said to momma. I won't be long. Don't worry about me. I'll be home before dark.
You have many houses, one for every season. Mountains in your windows, violets in your hands. Through your English meadows your blue-eyed horses wander.