Why should we argue with the falling dust Or tremble in the traffic of the days? Our hearts are music-makers in the clouds, Our feet are running on the heavenly ways.
We'll go and find the honey of romance Within the hollow of the sacred tree. There is a spirit in the eastern sky, Calling along the dawn to you and me.
She'll lead us to the forest where she hides The yellow wine that keeps the angels young — We are the chosen lovers of the earth For whom alone the golden comb was hung.