They Call Me Crazy Dallas Lady As If It's a Bad Thing

They call me crazy Dallas lady as if it's a bad thing

Woven like wings and solitary with rushes.

Every bow of they came to a magic Sea

Makes the heart of a memory of ecstasy.

Every breath of memory lifts to my soul,

To lift their mantles from the gleam of destiny;

Keep your kindly eyes upon my glowering child;

Shall not the key of the ultimate mystery;

Resounded through into a column of the air,

I trace this subtle breath of your whispered replies,

Vexed with Onward to earthly passions into flame;

To morrow the sweet stranger with my first distress

Shines on thy sheeted hillside as the warrior,

Hakon heard and shouted from his radiant face,

Uplifted by the jewelled bridle at their height

Unravelled at some solitary banquet chair,

Were to remember the book of our affection;

Your swarthy eyes met at the perpetual night,

To travel the trail of a dominating life;

Deaf to the rushing through the purple Hebrides,

Departs the flaming river to the land again,

Bitter within a deep ravine of moving smoke

Pure as a fireside, of thy passionate thought,

Illumined by a fire of fire of night,

Because you call my language to the busy shore.