Make Way: ‘here comes the sun, and I say, it’s alright’ – beatles

make way for the clouds,
as some etesian wind
would bring them in;
and make way for the falling leaves,
the butterflies of winter’s eve;
summer is dying,
our dear friend is old;
the days of warm and sunny smiles
are soon to catch a cold,
but as we at the bedside lay
and bid to warmth, farewell,
we’ll kneel and bow our heads to pray,
in hopes the clouds dispel,
though when the winter’s had its run,
and spring shall surely rise,
those welcome words,
“Make Way the Sun!”
we’ll shout up to the skies.


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