Grey misty morning,
that hangs in heavy sky;
brooding fall warning,
of the land soon to die.
Deeper into the south,
the sun makes it's journey;
no songs in bird's mouth,
or jousting lovers tourney.
Green gives way to brown,
as steel turns to rust;
the branches all hang down,
for come the king of winter must.
To golden memories cling,
and brave this misery's reign;
hear the whispers of spring,
for it will come to us again.
