Just past the rusted mailbox, I walked her from the road;
She turned her head to listen to the river as it flowed.
I watched her dark hair blowing, like the soft-reeds with the breeze,
For love was whole and perfect, and I was at my ease.
Outside a country restaurant, the sky was branching red;
To hide the gath’ring teardrops, she turned her graceful head.
Her dark hair passed beside me, as she lightly touched my arm;
For love lay dead and broken, and twas I that did the harm.