What is it in nature which lends it's hand
To the tongues of young wondering lovers in flight,
That by the silent mood of a dying word
A scythe was taught to moan and to write?
What is it that is left for the blushing cheek
To blink the lips of a blooming rose,
When lovers' eyes as black as summer crows
Picked the blackened rose that they seeked?
What has not been taken by a lover's greed?
What has not been taken by a lover's greed?
What then from all the vine and seed?
On the fragant air of spring they feed
They come in swarms of two, like me and you,
Fattened by the love that they need
What has not been taken by a lover's greed?
What has not been taken by a lover's greed?
On and on they come
Forever saying I would die without you
In the chasm of these eyes, nothing satisfies
Staring into the starry-eyed infinite
Can't get enough of it
Can't get enough
Can't get enough of it
Can't get enough

Why is it then my pen should stall
When by your wondrous eyes I shake?
When we, this world is ours to take
What has not been taken by a lover's greed?