A warm hand to a cold, cold face

Awakes that eerie, weary trace,

That strain so familiar to hear,

So painful and yet so clear.


And what shall your critique be of me?

A bass line without a melody?

Or that strain so familiar to hear

Cold, cold cheeks and a falling tear?


For how can you say that you know me?

Have you trespassed in my dreams?

Has this erring led you to believe?

This man is not what he seems?


New Inn Hall Street

Michaelmas 1975