Slow motion in the quiet of your room
so potent is the smell of her perfume
that you think she's eternal
that you think that she's everything
- but no-one knows what she is....
Repentance for all you should have said -
her entrance seems to raise you from the dead
and you think she's really with you
and you think that she's always stay,
always ready to forgive you,
always ready to grant you her mercy
- but in her own way.
When she comes she'll be a stranger:
stuck dumb you'll try to protest
as the drum beats out the danger,
too late - you should have noticed
that the lady with her skin so white
like something out of Blake or Burne-Jones
always blocked out the light
and shadowed all you owned.
Still you think she's forever,
yesterday and tomorrow
- but no-one knows where she is.
Still you swear that you can win her
and your prayer is that she'll want you
aware, once a saint, now you're a sinner
and your sins are going to haunt you
when the lady with her skin so white
like something out of Edgar Allen Poe
holds your hand so very tight
and you hope that she'll never let go.
Easy targets, easy cross-words, easy life:
these key margins leave you balanced on the knife,
bleeding darkly. In the end it all comes down
to sleazy bargains
That hidden key - you tried so hard to find it
all you can conceive is the effort to be worthy.
Even now you need to be reminded
that La Belle Dame is without mercy.
The lady with her skin so white
- you never did quite catch her name -
now she holds you in the night
and she'll never let go again
she'll never let go again.