The Things You Are To Me

If I held in my hand, every grain of sand,
Since time first began to be,
Still, I could never count, measure the amount,
Of all the things you are to me.
If I could paint the sky, hang it out to dry,
I would want the sky to be...
Oh, such a grand design, an everlasting sign,
Of all the things you are to me.
You are the song that comes on summer winds,
You are the falling year that autumn brings;
You are the wonder and the mystery
In everything I see the things you are to me.
Sometimes I wake at night, suddenly take fright,
You might be just fantasy,
But then you reach for me and, once again I see,
All the things you are to me.
You are the song that comes on summer winds,
You are the falling year that autumn brings;
You are the wonder and the mystery
In everything I see the things you are to me.
You are the song that comes on summer winds,
You are the falling year that autumn brings;
You are the wonder and the mystery
In everything I see the things you are to me.
All the things you are... to me.