Under the archway across the cold courtyard
Up the stone stairway all pitted and worn
To a room in a shambles with orange-boxes for chairs
Our lives lay scattered still yet to be born

Daylight would show you the cracks in the ceiling
Wallpaper hanging all tattered and torn
It looks like a junkyard of paraphernalia
Where three dreamers dreamed dreams still yet to be born

One was a dreamer a love-torn romantic
Who sang ballads of barons and ladies forlorn
Who carved love-chains of oakwood to capture his sweethearts
And life lay before him still yet to be born

The other was a maker of dreams from his fingers
Like a harp from old Ireland that would play night and morn
He would weave you and spin you a yarn to remember
And leave you with sweet dreams still yet to be born