Of Late

Amelia, a will-o'-wisp of your hair Roaming round your rust Straight to America I'm longing the morning, Lord I know more than I should And Amelia, I wish that I could Of late The leaves leave me spry And the moonshine is cast on the great buckeye Of late The leaves leave me spry And the hay dries, I'm driving home at sunrise And Amelia, the trees seem to be growing Flowing up your blouse Making you a puppet I'm longing the ocean, Lord I swam more than I could And Amelia, I wish that I would