Field of Wood

Field of Wood
You don't really know anything
And you don't know when the going's good
And in the end it means everything
Sunday flowers in this field of wood
Your glasses are too strong
Your vision's far too long
Bake it in the sun for a day
Your rainy day is here it never seems to clear
Step far away
In the air
You recall the high waterfall
And you remember where the hemlock stood
And in the end it's a winter wall
Of Sunday flowers in this field of wood
The poetry's real nice it never breaks the ice
File it away in a dream
Your rainy day is here it never seems to clear
Step far away
In the air
You recall the white waterfall
And you remember where the hemlock stood
And in the end it's a winter wall
Of Sunday flowers in this field of wood