In the half-tone light of a young morning

she sighs and shifts on the pillow.

And across her face dancing, the first shadows fly

to kiss the Pussy Willow.



In her fairy-tale world she's a lost soul singing

in a sad voice nobody hears.

She waits in her castle of make-believing

for her white knight to appear.



Pusy Willow --- down fur-lined avenue

brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.

Runs for the train --- see, eight o'clock's coming

cutting dreams down to size again.



Pussy Willow --- down fur-lined avenue

brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.

Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming

cutting dreams down to size again.



She longs for the East and a pale dress flowing

an apartment in old Mayfair.

Or to fish the Spey, spinning the first run of Spring

or to die for a cause somewhere.



Pussy Willow --- down fur-lined avenue

brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.

Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming

cutting dreams down to size again.