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Late last night, about a quarter to twelve |
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In the middle of an awful storm |
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I took fright at the terrible sight |
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Of a raven flying into my room |
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My blood ran cold, my heart stood still |
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As I pulled the covers over my head |
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A minute dragged by as I opened my eyes up |
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To find her at the end of my bed |
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Then she spoke in a devilish croak |
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About herself being one of a score |
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And I felt sick at the very idea |
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Of dealing with nineteen more |
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She said, "look out your window" |
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I see a skyfull, I pull a rifle on them all. |
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Pink sunrise in the wintry skies |
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All warm on the wings of a dove |
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She sinks and lands on the back of my hand |
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And sings with the voice of love... |
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"Thoughts made flesh can be beautiful things |
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As I am one of the same, |
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Fed so well on the best of your dreams |
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And the beauty found within |
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But those black beasts that you see in the east |
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Are scratching on the orchard floor |
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At split, sweet fruits and the writhing worms |
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That you keep behind the straining door |
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Go to the cellar! |
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I see the beasts and they're eating |
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Feasting on it". |
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Fill my head with small white flowers |
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Help the sweetness heal the sour |
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Draw on high religious power |
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Free the ravens from the tower. |
