We go outside in the sun for the last hours of the day, for the best hours of the daynOur heads are sore from the day we've had or the night beforenBut our worries seem to pass when we lay down on the grassnnIn the dwindling light of the sunnIn the arms of your only onenWhen the wait and the work has been donenIs this home? Is this home?nnI could be wrong - so what? We won't be young for longnAnd there are trees outside for us to climbnIn case we grow too old before our timennIn the dwindling light of the sunnIn the arms of your only onenWhen the wait and the work has been donenIs this home? Is this home?nnAt the prettiest part of the daynWhen the sunset starts out on her waynAnd his arms and his lips seem to saynThis is home, this is home.