Just sleep, the beauty of this place Will seep into your very blood; I'll see that you aren't woken up And it's slowed to just a trickle now But I wish that it was pouring out Because there's so much here to write about. And all the leaves are turning brown; They're falling from their branches And landing at my feet, But I can hardly make a sound, A word of adoration, for what's surrounding me. Make it up from here, but I can't make it up from here, So I won't wake you up, my dear (How can I find my way out I dug this hole all by myself With no more poems on napkins And i left the notebook on its shelf) And I just want to write with everything inside.