The orange globe that's climbing high,
Has lost much of it's light.
The warmth has gone from it's bright glow,
It's now as cool as night..

The emerald trees have lost their sheen,
The birds sing bitter songs.
When she was here the bluebells rang,
As if they were brass gongs.

The forest sounds are silent now,
The creatures miss her sight.
She loved them all, they loved her too,
And all the world seemed bright.

I hope someday the bluebird's song,
Is heard here in this glen,
As we two hand in hand will stroll,
When I too meet life's end.