The hills green grey green
Await the rain
But they lie to the fallow trees
About the sculling cloud
Nothing stirs in the low meadow
Except for the blank winds
Which seduce the shy grasses
With their damp dour rhythms
The hills green grey green
Await the rain
But they lie to the fallow trees
About the sculling cloud
Nothing stirs in the low meadow
Except for the blank winds
Which seduce the shy grasses
With their damp dour rhythms