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 [bad word] 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 [bad word] 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 [bad word] 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.