He is not a weatherman. But his bride lies with the land. And she will whisper to him. I'll be dressing up in snow. Cloaked in echo it's almost. As if only Nature knows. How to bring his wife to life. And breathe her into form. One more look from her eyes. One more look. Can you paint her back to life?. He knows every moor and mound. Every curve of every hill. A shoulder of the mountain. Where they watched a thousand dawns. One more look from her eyes. One more look. Can you paint her back to life?. Rising she stirs. First it blurs. A breeze that lifts. Lilac blossoms from the Earth. Blending it's shape. Wo a skirt. Lith limbs that bend. He's drawn toward her pirouette turn. Autumn's peach black. Winter's velvet coat. Pink Tourmaline. Palette of Spring. In Summer she's wrapped in. Viennese green. He is not a weatherman. But his bride lies with the land. And she will whisper to him. I'll be dressing up in snow. Cloaked in echo it's almost. As if only Nature knows. How to paint his wife to life. With every season's tone. One more look from her eyes. One more look from her eyes. One more look from her eyes. One more look from her eyes. One more look from her eyes. One more look. Can you paint her back to life?