When all the world is old, my dear,
And the trees are all too tall;
And every bird a hawk, my dear,
And every dance a ball;
Then barefoot your way to me, my dear,
And around the way we'll go;
A childhood must play its course, my dear,
And every heart should know:
When all the world was young, my dear,
And all the seeds had just been planted;
And all the color in this place, my dear,
Mistakenly, taken, for granted;
Back to those times and ways, my dear,
An abode to which all were naive;
A place for peace and joy, my dear,
Where all was loved and free.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
When all the world is old, my dear,
And the trees are all too tall;
And every bird a hawk, my dear,
And every dance a ball;
Then barefoot your way to me, my dear,
And around the way we'll go;
A childhood must play its course, my dear,
And every heart should know:
When all the world was young, my dear,
And all the seeds had just been planted;
And all the color in this place, my dear,
Mistakenly, taken, for granted;
Back to those times and ways, my dear,
An abode to which all were naive;
A place for peace and joy, my dear,
Where all was loved and free.
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