As I sit here next to this brook,
listening to it run,
I can see the glare of the golden sun.
As the wind starts to sift through the
trees,
and the dew that is falling down through
the leaves.
I will come again another day
the grass will be green and the sky won't be gray.
Because seasons change, by every
passing day.
Like as the rain turns to snow and
the breeze that does blows all the
clouds away.
And when I hear the bells of spring
a brand new season it will bring.
And further seasons that are soon to come
are the rain and snow and sun.