In the green hollow glen
a dispirited minstrel plays,
passing time with a song by the brook
where he spends his days.

He called me down to the waterside.
Stay a while, and I'll sing a rhyme for thee.
And, like his eyes, his song lit up the night.

All the wood whispered deep
of the sorrowful tales he told.

Legends weaved in the canvas of time.

Songs of lovers and heroes and princes
from ages old.

Distant faces that no longer shine.

Endless nights singing in the trees,
where he taught me to drink the wind from a breeze.

Such wonders I'd find
in the trees by the cool waterside.

With the grey morning mist
the man and his muse were gone.

Like two birds that had flown in the night

Away into the wood they departed
and took their song,

hidden deep from the day and the light.

Still his music hung in the air,
promising with a sweet longing despair

if your heart ever leaves,
you will find it again in the trees.

In the trees.
Where the wind cries the saddest song.

In the trees.
And the minstrel plays on and on.

In the trees.
Distant voices forever call in the trees.

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