| I am coming to Greenport 3 a.m. by the Appalachian Trail the ground fog since Albany starts to lift |
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| Soprano: | Tis the mist to be girdled tis the mist to agree tis the mist to go down where we ought to be |
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| Half-moon rising over Windsor Locks drags the haze from the Connecticut River moonlight glints off the dark water |
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| Bass: | Aphasic mace how green the cloud that swamped a poor wretch like me |
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| The sky turns from black to blue like a Steller’s Jay in Muir Woods rises amazed in the morning’s first grace |
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| Duet: | Stony Creek Old Saybrook and Lyme sunlight—quick I’ve run out of time |
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| Fisher’s Island shimmers to port as the first New London ferry of the day brings me across to Orient Point |
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| Chorus | Tis the mist to be girdled tis the mist to decree tis the mist to go down where we’re sposed to be |
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| To turn, turn will be our despite till by turning, turning we come round right |
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