Early in Spring
before Mountain Laurel bloom,
when the greyness of Winter
won't give up Her gloom.
I too can't let go
of our broken tune,
for now I will sing it alone,
now I will sing it alone.

Clouds swirl and open,
niveous rays of light stream down.
Like God's omnipotent vision
upon this unfamiliar ground.
And where on earth
is love lost or found,
or was it ever here at all,
was it ever here at all?

Sitting by the singing stream
that use to laugh, that made me dream.
Now I have the veins of a stone,
and can't unsow the seeds we have sown.

Dusk falls upon me
with no promise of dawn.
Peace fills a fern field with the suckling of a fawn.
But the love that I could touch
is now dead and is gone,
and I have no tears left to cry,
I have no tears left to cry.