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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 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 she'll 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;

struck 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 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 concieve 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