It calls the Victorian lady back from the dead
She rises from the cold ground
And enters through the door as a draught
To you and I

If you and I could ever, ever go back
We’d see her on the other side of a dusty frame
Running through the field, pale of salt water in hand

She races through closed and open shutters
In search of lovely little ones
The ones your hearts with
The ones you love
They asked for her to come

They asked the man in the bright red suit
And wrote it on their list, too
But never would he hear them
Through all the snow

And despite being hung on the walls
Of all the ocean liners the Queen herself
Could not get the water to put the fire out

And when I call you won’t come running
Now a dark spectre to me
No returning in white chariot
Frozen teardrops fall and melt into the ink
Oh, the dust is falling heavy out on the hills
My portrait and my windowsill
We’d kiss but we are made of clay

You loved me most when love was young
Now, even the setting sun
We dance beneath is made of clay

The dust falls heavy on the hill
My portrait is my windowsill
And out come the little ones with burning, flailing arms
Take up your drumsticks and
Batter my heart like an antique tom

And when I call you won’t come running
Now a dark spectre to me
No returning in white chariot
Frozen teardrops fall and melt into the ink

And when I call you won’t come running
Now a dark spectre to me
No returning in white chariot
Frozen teardrops fall and melt into the ink

And when I won’t call. You won’t come running
Now a dark spectre to me
No returning in white chariot
Frozen teardrops fall and melt into the ink