But Wingate Hall must tumble down, Tumble down, tumble down, A dream dissolving, a ruined thing, Before we can melt from the shattered crown Gold enough for a wedding-ring. And Wingate Hall must lie in the dust, And the wood rot and the iron rust And the vines grow over the broken bust, Before we meet without hate or pride, Before we talk as lover and bride, Before the daggers of our offence Have the color of innocence, And nothing is said and all is said, And we go looking for secret bread, And lie together in the same bed.) Yes, it’s good music, hear it lift (It is too mellow, it is too swift, I am dancing alone in my naked shift, I am dancing alone in the snowdrift. You are my lover and you my life, My peace and my unending strife And the edge of the knife against my knife. I will not make you a porcelain wife.