In the deadest night on Whistle Hill
a ghostly fog did give me chills
for through the misty, twisting white
I saw swing fro some wild eyes.

Thence broke through a face near cold
yet in his depths was gleaming bold
the darkest shine, did'st tell me nein
stay back, the sloe claims wild eyes.

How I knew, the choice was his
for eyes as those are short to live
but what he wished, I did decide
I thought afraid, his wild eyes

Why shun't he change his look on time
for dark's not dark but in the night
I reached through mist, and soothed his cry
his life had left him child eyes

For child eyes have yet to see
they think they're wild, search for free
they look for lifeless peace of mind
evolving into wild eyes

So now a man on Whistle Hill
searches long, through wind and chill
for'is eyes of old, the quitting kind
lest he might save, those wild eyes.