All the riders on the rise
and circlers from every side.
All the riders on the rise
and circlers from every side.

Eyes up!
Light floods around
in a yellow shadow after night comes down
in a dull dumb swipe.
And all's white.

Fire painting on the pines,
and hawks above the timber-line,
and water weeping from the ice.

Heat is lost. Winter rocks into a lonely boxwood grove.
And quiet snowfall smothers all of the lawns
where the ladies coughed and cried,
"I don't want to be there when it's time!"

The dying stag is on his side.
The hunters are hiding, up on high.
The wind is beating through the briars.

Waves on the graves of the saints.
Dull grey as the sea pushes land away.
Dull ache when you wake.
Grey smoke shows the way you walk
down by when it's time.

I don't want to be there
when it's time to go
down, or I don't want to go
down there alone.