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.