Sunday night, in the dark of mid-winter, light seemingly still glowing from the snow, though I know that could never be. Moonlight, perhaps, the kind that brings out a certain wildness, that would have us dancing naked beneath its glow if it were just a smidge warmer. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
Bed, bed I couldn’t go to bedMy head’s too light to try to set it downSleep, sleep I couldn’t sleep tonightNot for all the jewels in the crownI could have danced all nightI could have danced all nightAnd still have begged for moreI could have spread my wings and done a thousand thingsI’ve never done before
I’ll never know what made it so excitingWhy all at once my heart took flightI only know when he began to dance with meI could have danced, danced, danced all night
It’s after three nowDon’t you agree now?She ought to be in bed!
I could have danced all night, I could have danced all nightAnd still have begged for moreI could have spread my wings and done a thousand thingsI’ve never done before
I’ll never know what made it so excitingWhy all at once my heart took flightI only know when he began to dance with meI could have danced, danced, danced all night
If I’m up beyond three these days, it’s not from the overwrought excitement from a night of dancing – quite the opposite. My nights are more restless than usual, my sleep not unfettered from bother and worry. Middle-age, I suppose, and so far from the carefree slumber of youth. Sunday nights aren’t supposed to feel sadder the older we get, are they?
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