Three Dreamers

Under the archway across the cold courtyard
Up the stone stairway all pitted and worn
To a room in a shambles with orange-boxes for chairs
Our lives lay scattered still yet to be born

Now daylight would show you the cracks in the ceiling
Wallpaper hanging all tattered and torn
It looks like a junkyard of paraphernalia
Where three dreamers dreamed dreams still yet to be born

No one was a dreamer, a love-torn romantic
Who sang ballads of barons and ladies forlorn
Who carved love-chains of oakwood to capture his sweethearts
And life lay before him still yet to be born

The other was a maker of dreams from his fingers
Like a harp from old Ireland that would play night and morn
He could weave you and spin you a yarn to remember
And leave you with sweet dreams still yet to be born