this is the turning of the year
the final scene before the curtain falls
the squirrel warm within his bed of leaves
can not hear the wind that blows around the chimney pots
are like the pilgrim of the year gone by
he sliips
once he was a young man
who loved in the spring
and lay beneath the upturn sky on long hot summer days
but with autumn he grows mellow
he looks over his shoulder down the long year path of no
already he"s but a memory fading like a shadow on the wall
but time with restless footsteps hurries by
and now beside the road
there stands the pilgrim of the year to be
falling leaves turn to gold
silver flowers on my window
spirit of the fading year gently slips away
he knows not where
he cannot see
naked trees in the sky
stars are shinning clear and cold
minstrel of the ages sings of words so long ago
that age-old tune w
