Slow motion in the quiet of your room:
so potent is the smell of her perfume
   that you think she's eternal
   that you think she's everything
-but no-one knows what she is....
Repentance for all you should have said-
her entrance seems to raise you from the dead
	and you think she's really with you
	and you think she'll always stay.
	always ready to forgive you,
	always ready to grant you her mercy
	   -but in her own way.
When she comes she'll be a stranger;
struck dumb you'll try to protest
as the drum beats out the danger,
too late-you should have noticed
that the lady with her skin so white
like something out of Blake or Burne-Jones
always blocked out the light
   and shadowed all you owned.

Still you think she's forever,
yesterday and tomorrow
-but no-one knows where she is.
Still you swear that you can win her
and your prayer is that she'll want you;
aware, once a saint, now you're a sinner
and your sins are going to haunt you
when the lady with her skin so white
like something out of Edgar Allen Poe
holds your hand so tight
   and you hope that she'll never let go.

Easy targets, easy cross-words, easy life:
these key margins leave you balanced on the knife,
bleeding darkly. In the end it all comes down
to sleazy bargains.
That hidden key-you tried so hard to find it:
all you can concieve is the effort to be worthy.
Even now you need to be reminded
that La Belle Dame is without mercy.
The lady with her skin so white
-you never did quite catch her name-
now she holds you in the night
   and she'll never let go again
	   she'll never let go again