em	a5/f#	g	d/f#
The only thing to fear is fear itself
those who know the past are doomed to seldom smile
If I could only be, in exquisite agony,
surely then the Bard would not forsaken me.

c/d	d/e	c/e	d/e
Travel was arranged for thirty men.
Though the passage was rough, often turbulent
Why they had go, only heaven knew to show,
And although I know I cannot say, 
It must be surely so.

Over Stephen's hill, the house is rotting.
Still the weeds are not, what, they used to be.
And if I could see tomorrow, 
what the soldiers saw back then,
There could be no question of a sanatorium.

So you don't believe in miracles or men
Your doors are shut against the sunshine and the rain
Still it seems that pale light streams
unbidden through your closest guarded room.

On dales of purple poppies, you'll find too many graves
Pale pantomimes of Christ are planted there like trees
You say there's only one way and that good enough for you
Why don't we just have done, and fall gently back to sleep.

Too late , too late from on high
The message comes too late for us
The light is slipping, the boat is shipping
water over rusted gunnels, over rusted gunnels 
# copyright Joe Johnston