What would Walter do if he'd run into you
laying down among the blades of grass?
He'd turn the pages slow, as histories of snow,
speaking like each word would be his last
So I give you a ring, made of fiddle string
and I can hear the trumpets from the hills
The words I love the best are the words that you undress
as flowers crowd the open windowsills
Everything depends on a grove where the river bends
where I imagine waking up with you
With you and I alive in 1855
Today the skies are colorblind and blue
The lighthouse keeper cheered the old man and his beard,
but he swallowed up the last of all our gin
He stumbled home alone, to the shipwrecks and the storm,
wishing he was where your voice had been
Everything depends on the time when the money ends,
when we ain't got a penny or a clue
With you and I alive in 1855
Today the skies are colorblind and blue
Everything depends on the way that you move your hands
and draw the curtains wide to see the view
With you and I alive in 1855
Today the skies are colorblind and blue