Texty písní Buffalo Springfield

Buffalo Springfield

The Hour of Not Quite Rain

In the hour of not quite rain

When the fog was fingertip high

The moon hung suspended

In a singular sky

Deeply and beyond seeing

Not wishing to intrude

Bathed in its own reflection

The water mirrored the moon

The tumbling birds have now sobered

From the leaves of their nursery

Like shadowy, quiet children

Watching sleepily