I sit alone along a stony brook. I weep, for all my lonely sorrows. I conceive of what my life has took, And, I wish not to know any tomorrows. I gaze on down into the flowing water's stream And as I sit in my tears, I conjure up a dream; And as the stream accepts my tears, I try to ponder what this dream could mean. I'm walking in a timberland, and it set near a woodsmans mill. And, with the flowing water's rushing sound, it makes this dream seem real. I see a miller's wheel, and it's turning high and round; It squeaking high above my head. And, when the water flows down down to the ground, It is then, I see the water is red. The water is red. This seems strange but it is true. And down there in this deep red water, A soft little white lily grew . It is as white as snow, And as white as new And here it is dwelling, Inside this deep dark red pool. Oh poor lily, Now, it is changing to pink; For of this cold flowing red water, This poor little lily did drink; Poor little flower, This little lily is heavy from its drink; It goes down down under the water The lily did sink; Into its red red watery grave. I Reflect back on to my stony flowing stream. I do ponder of what this image could mean. A tear falls from a burning eye; I sit here in my melancholy, and I wonder why; Oh, why must this be. |