The oaks and the vines And the branches entwined Around my heart And a melancholy winding Led to my depart And it was clear That you were not here For the roses And you stood watch over a man-made lake You ain't no saint Of the roses And you wore Paper-thin sleeves In this mire of thorns And with ill fate we lay beneath Oh that white cross Bearing this long loss And with ill fate we lay beneath Oh that white cross Bearing this loss And I shall, continue to make, bouquets of roses from this fate And so I shall continue to make Bouquets of roses From this fate