Question

Song Lyrics on Allspirit

The Moody Blues

Written by Justin Hayward

Why do we never get an answer
When we’re knocking at the door
With a thousand million questions
About hate and death and war?
‘Cos when we stop and look around us,
There is nothing that we need,
In a world of persecution
That is burning in its greed.

Why do we never get an answer
When we’re knocking at the door
Because the truth is hard to swallow
That’s what the war of love is for

It’s not the way that you say it
When you do those things to me
It’s more the way that you mean it
When you tell me what will be

And when you stop and think about it
You won’t believe it’s true
That all the love you’ve been giving
Has all been meant for you.

I’m looking for someone to change my life,
I’m looking for a miracle in my life
And if you could see what it’s done to me,
To lose the love I knew
Could safely lead me through.

Between the silence of the mountains,
And the crashing of the sea,
There lies a land I once lived in,
And she’s waiting there for me,
But in the grey of the morning,
My mind becomes confused,
Between the dead and the sleeping,
And the road that I must choose.

I’m looking for someone to change my life,
I’m looking for a miracle in my life
And if you could see what it’s done to me,
To lose the love I knew,
Could safely lead me to
The land that I once knew,
To learn as we grow old
The secrets of our soul.

It’s not the way that you say it
When you do those things to me
It’s more the way you really mean it
When you tell me what will be

Why do we never get an answer
When we’re knocking at the door
With a thousand million questions
About hate and death and war?
‘Cos when we stop and look around us,
There is nothing that we need,
In a world of persecution
That is burning in its greed.

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There Will Come Soft Rains

By Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white.

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Read more poems from Sara Teasdale

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