Here we come to a turning of the season.
Witness to the arc towards the sun.
The neighbor's blessed burden within reason.
Becomes a burden borne of all in one.
And nobody, nobody knows.
Let the yoke fall from our shoulders,
Don't carry it all, don't carry it all.
We are all our hands and holders,
Beneath this bold and brillian sun.
This I swear to all!
A monument to build beneath the arbors.
Upon a cliff that towers towards the trees.
With every vessel pitching hard to starboard.
Lay it's head on summer's freckled knees.
And nobody, nobody knows.
Let the yoke fall from our shoulders,
Don't carry it all, don't carry it all.
We are all our hands and holders,
Beneath this bold and brilliant sun.
This I swear to all,
This I swear to all.
Buried wreath of trillium and ivy.
Laid upon the body of a boy.
Lazy will the long come from it's hiding.
Return this quiet searcher to the soil.
So raise a glass to turnings of the season.
Watch it as it arcs towards the sun.
And you must bear your neighbor's burden within in reason.
And your labours will be borne when all is done.
And nobody, nobody knows.
Let the yoke fall from our shoulders,
Don't carry it all, don't carry it all.
We are all our hands and holders,
Beneath this bold and brilliant sun.
This I swear to all,
And this I swear to all,
And this I swear to all,
And this I swear to all,
To all, to all, to all.