One by one, the crickets still; silent shadows are stealing up the hill; Behind the house, the air is turning chill: Winter's coming in.
You & I, we've known the seasons, Watched the blossom from the springtime slowly ripen into fruit And through all kinds of season, it's here we're taking root, Here we're taking root.
You see everything so clearly; and I am slow to learn, But there's some pages in our history, It seemed so hard to turn: no man's made of stone.
From up here you can see the wild geese fly And that blood-orange of a sun, slipping down the sky; The wind will be in our faces, by and by.
And for the first time in a long time, The sound of summer laughter finds an echo in my heart; For the first time in a long time, I'm where the story starts, It's here the story starts. Give me your hand now, Turn your face toward the sun I understand, now: our story is just begun.
Caught in this fold of landscape I look out at the river and the dusk that's coming in My home is where your heart is, under this pale moon.
They sat together in the park As the evening sky grew dark She looked at him and he felt a spark tingle to his bones ’Twas then he felt alone and wished that he’d gone straight And watched out for a simple twist of fate
They walked along by the old canal A little confused, I remember well Stopped into a strange hotel with the neon burnin’ bright He felt the heat of the night hit him like a freight train Moving with a simple twist of fate
A saxophone someplace softly played As she was moving on by the arcade She heard the melody rise and fade, the sun was coming up, She dropped a coin into the cup of a blind man at the gate And forgot about a simple twist of fate
He woke up, she was gone He didn’t see nothing but the dawn Got outta bed and put his clothes back on And pushed back the blinds Found a note she’d left behind To which he just could not relate All about a simple twist of fate.
He hears the ticking of the clocks Walks alone through the city blocks Hunts her down by the waterfront docks Where the sailors all roll in. Maybe he’ll spot her once again. How long must he wait One more time for a simple twist of fate.
People tell me it’s a crime To feel too much for too long a time She should have caught me in my prime, She would have stayed with me. Instead of going off to sea, and leaving me to meditate upon that simple twist of fate.
One of the most atmospheric story-songs Dylan ever penned. The arrangement
gains in intensity as the story unfolds. The lyrics are those Dylan used in
most of his 690 odd concert performances of the song.
Half way up the valley, there's a house that I call home It has weathered many seasons - the men who built it are long gone; But sometimes I seem to see them, when the morning light is strong Fashioning a place to live, out of tree-trunks and rough stone.
Sometimes I seem to see them, when the morning light is strong, Builders from a bygone age, singing an ancient song; The same sun stained their forearms brown, the same wind chilled their bones: The same earth gave them the wherewithall : the tree-trunks and rough stone.
You can keep your golden palaces with their fine-wrought marble walls You can keep your high-rise luxury, it doesn't tempt me at all; You can keep on building houses, but a house don't make a home: Give me the simple honesty of tree-trunks and rough stone.
Down there in the valley, there's a place that I'll call home: It 'll be my final resting place, when my last day's work is done; You can keep your ornate monuments, your ashes and your urn: Leave me the quiet dignity of tree-trunk and rough stone.
I love the simple honesty of old farm-houses, built of local
rough-hewn stone and felled tree-trunks. I chose to live in
one, and I imagined that I would die there. With the haunting
accordion playing of Gérard Lamolère.
It's a short step from the diner to the highway, It's a long haul from the mountains to the coast; From the restless glance she flicked between the distance and the counter, I'd say our laughter stirred a ghost. Down the way, lights prickle at the edge of town, As the cowboys gather, to watch the sun go down; There's smoke and fire and laughter and hope for the ever-after But I'd say that Destiny wears a frown.
America, come weep, for what's been lost and what's been stolen, America, come weep, for all your pioneers of old; For somewhere on the way, between dream and realisation, I'd say you've gone and lost your soul.
With her elbows on the counter, and her eyes out on the highway, The waitress in the diner watches the drivers come and go; They all have destinations emblazoned on their faces, Like the old heroes on horseback who made the horizon their home. The evening news flickers from the TV in the corner, Images of blood and death that'd make your stomach churn; The waitress starts to wonder, as she polishes the glasses, How a nation of refugees took to killing in their turn.
America, come weep, for what's been lost and what's been stolen ... etc.
It's a short step from the diner to the highway, It's a long haul from the mountains to the coast; From the restless glance she flicked between the distance and the counter, I'd say our laughter stirred a ghost.