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.