Type O Negative

Spring won't come, the need of strife
To struggle to be freed from hard ground
The evening mists that creep and crawl
Will drench in the dew and so drown
I'm the green man
The green man
Sol in prime sweet summertime
Cast shadows of doubt on my face
A midday sun, its caustic hues
Refracting within the still lake
Autumn in her flaming dress
Of orange, brown, gold fallen leaves