The world's so queer, and yet you show surprise
to find him solid in the midday light.
He looks at you with strangely laughing eyes.
You told yourself you're sure to recognise
the green-clad arms, the ring upon the right;
the world's so queer, and yet you show surprise?
His name won't pass your lips. You know... those guys.
You know his name. At least you think you might.
He looks at you with strangely laughing eyes.
The happy folk? And after many tries
you force a smile, a single smile, polite.
"The world's so queer, and yet you show surprise...
You've seen me here before, contrariwise;
You can't pretend you don't recall the sight."
He looks at you with strangely laughing eyes.
(Your sister's outer clothing all of lies.)
(Your brother was a changeling in the night.)
The world's so queer, and yet you show surprise.
He looks at you with strangely laughing eyes.

This moment, I am God upon this town.
I compass every window spread below:
each pinprick point in total looking down
a pattern only overseers know.
I feel the human flow and ebb each minute
perceiving both with every passing breath;
each lighted room has home and hoping in it,
each darkening a sleeping, or a death.
    And nothing, nothing makes it wait to darken;
    had I the power it should be shining still.
    Some other one you have to hope will hearken,
    some other on some yet more lofty hill--
whom priests and people plead to, not to be
as powerless to hold these lights as me.

I thought I saw an execution there.
The fascinated public gathered round.
The cheerful hangmen stripped the victim bare
And built their gibbet high above the ground.
The rope was taut, my wildness filled with fear.
I saw him fall.  I heard his final cry.
Yet when the hangmen left I ventured near
To find my fault: I'd never seen him die.
In fact, I think he'd died some years ago.
There's blackness of decay in every breath.
The sound of flies was all that's left to grow,
Now free to come and feast upon his death;
Prince of the trees, I have a simple plea:
I will not die till death has come to me.

But you're clutching a script
if the world is your stage.
You've mumbled, you've slipped,
but you're clutching a script
and the binding is ripped
and you're missing a page;
but you're clutching a script
if the world is your stage.

Naught but a moon of purple
the naked hills along;
the voice of the ancient river
filling the vale with song.

I saw the ruddy sunshine growing wild,
I saw his smiling visage disappear,
the sky, once filled with luminance so mild
becoming dark with shadowings of fear.
The southern wind with angry violence blows
Olympus, perched on Atlas' shoulders' height
who quavers as the tempest's fury grows
and fills the air with thunder in his fright.
But, see! I saw the veil of darkness break
within the morning's rainwater dissolving,
and see! I saw the daybreak's glory take
its former ground, back to its heights resolving;
and to the sky I wondered, "Who can say
if such a change as this lies in my way?"

I have a dream I almost dare— to tell
a spell, a tale to share,
binding words into a snare,
but I find there's nothing there.