Loreena McKennitt - The dark night of the soul Compiled: Juan Carlos David Upon a darkened night the flame of love was burning in my breast And by a lantern bright I fled my house while
Trang 1Loreena McKennitt - The dark night of the soul
Compiled: Juan Carlos David
Upon a darkened night
the flame of love was burning in my breast
And by a lantern bright
I fled my house while all in quiet rest
Shrouded by the night
and by the secret stair I quickly fled
The veil concealed my eyes
while all within lay quiet as the dead
Chorus
Oh night thou was my guide
oh night more loving than the rising sun
Oh night that joined the lover
to the beloved one
transforming each of them into the other
Upon that misty night
in secrecy, beyond such mortal sight
Without a guide or light
than that which burned so deeply in my heart
That fire t'was led me on
and shone more bright than of the midday sun
To where he waited still
it was a place where no one else could come
Chorus
Within my pounding heart
which kept itself entirely for him
He fell into his sleep
beneath the cedars all my love I gave
And by the fortress walls
the wind would brush his hair against his brow
And with its smoothest hand
caressed my every sense it would allow
Chorus
I lost myself to him
and laid my face upon my lovers breast
And care and grief grew dim
as in the mornings mist became the light
There they dimmed amongst the lilies fair
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əpɒn ə dɑːkənd naɪt |
ðə fleɪm əv lʌv wəz bɜːnɪŋ ɪn maɪ brest | ən(d) baɪ ə læntən braɪt |
aɪ fled maɪ haʊs waɪl ɔːl ɪn kwa(ɪ)ət rest | ʃraʊdɪd baɪ ðə naɪt |
ən(d) baɪ ðə siːkrɪt steər aɪ kwɪkli fled |
ðə veɪl kənsiːld maɪ aɪz | waɪl ɔːl wɪðɪn leɪ kwa(ɪ)ət əz ðə ded | kɔːrəs |
əʊ naɪt ðaʊ wəz maɪ ɡaɪd |
əʊ naɪt mɔː lʌvɪŋ ðən ðə raɪzɪŋ sʌn |
əʊ naɪt ðət dʒɔɪnd ðə lʌvə |
tə ðə bɪlʌvɪd wʌn | trænsfɔːmɪŋ iːtʃ əv ðəm ɪntə ði ʌðə |
əpɒn ðæt mɪsti naɪt |
ɪn siːkrəsi | bɪjɒn(d) sʌtʃ mɔːtl̩ saɪt | wɪðaʊt ə ɡaɪd ɔː laɪt |
ðən ðæt wɪtʃ bɜːnd səʊ diːpli ɪn maɪ hɑːt |
ðæt fa(ɪ)ə twɒz led mi ɒn | ən(d) ʃɒn mɔː braɪt ðən əv ðə mɪddeɪ sʌn |
tə weə hi weɪtɪd stɪl |
ɪt wəz ə pleɪs weə nəʊ wʌn els kəd kʌm | kɔːrəs |
wɪðɪn maɪ paʊndɪŋ hɑːt | wɪtʃ kept ɪtself ɪnta(ɪ)əli fə hɪm |
hi fel ɪntu ɪz sliːp | bɪniːθ ðə siːdəz ɔːl maɪ lʌv aɪ ɡeɪv | ən(d) baɪ ðə fɔːtrɪs wɔːlz |
ðə wɪn(d) wʊd brʌʃ ɪz heər əɡenst ɪz braʊ | ən(d) wɪð ɪts smuːðɪst hænd |
kərest ma(ɪ) evri sens ɪt wʊd əlaʊ | kɔːrəs |
aɪ lɒst maɪself tə hɪm | ən(d) leɪd maɪ feɪs əpɒn maɪ lʌvəz brest | ən(d) keər ən(d) ɡriːf ɡruː dɪm |
əz ɪn ðə mɔːnɪŋz mɪs(t) bɪkeɪm ðə laɪt | ðeə ðeɪ dɪmd əmʌŋs(t) ðə lɪliz feə | X3