Under the iron sea,
Over the gloomy sky,
Where trees are black
And leaves fall grey,
And green is grey,
There will the banshee come.
Riding a night owl she floats,
While the grey wind sadly storms,
And the heavy rain murmurs
Words of a buried pledge.
Rise apple tree, rise
And stretch your branches,
Take your golden fruits
There where no wind whips,
Take them where the Great
Architect sits watching us,
Still sorrow will I feel
But miserable no more.
