[00:00.00] 作词 : Mark King/George Green[00:00.00] 作曲 : Mark King/George Green[00:00.00] In his widowed years of longing, in his windowed room of light[01:02.10]He lay the oil upon the canvas, brought sweet memory to life[01:13.11]His speckled beard a brush of colour, his spotted hands both grace and speed[01:26.76]I was the boy who came with evening, to sweep his floors and bring his tea[01:39.39]To the world he was the master, his landscapes filled the gallery halls[01:45.51]But now he painted only portraits, unframed upon his private walls[01:51.69]Subjects sitting-walking-laughing in playful flight or soft refrain[01:57.81]A thousand forms and colours, but every face the same[02:04.11]Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history bleeds[02:14.58]... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream[02:28.59]A winter's night when i arrived there, he looked so tired and near the end[02:40.68]And as i cleaned his bench and brushes, i wished out loud to be like him[02:52.92]He said that art was only longing, trying to do what can't be done[03:05.34]And though he'd signed a thousand paintings, still he'd never finished one[03:18.03]As i finished up my sweeping, in his sleep he spoke her name[03:24.21]I looked again at all the portraits, each and every face the same[03:30.30]Not as she was in pain or sorrow, but in timeless beauty seen[03:38.28]As she served his noble dream[03:42.72]Across the page (across the ages) the moving hand of history bleeds[03:53.55]... for a kinder eye to see us, not as we are, but as we dream