luxurian wallowing in melancholy

SNOW —Randy Newman

Snow fills the fields we used to know,
And the little hut where we would go
Seems far below in the snow.

Gone … it’s all over, and you’re gone,
But the memory is ours alone.
Our dreams lay there in the snow.

Sometimes the wind blows through the trees,
And I think I hear you calling me,
But all I see is snow, everywhere I go.

As the cold winter sun sinks low,
I walk alone through the snow …
I walk alone through the snow.