Hushed is the wind, gentle still the breeeze
As it softly murmers through tall pine trees
Hark to the cuckoo; surely shows tis Spring
Hark the infants choir; Lord’s prayer they sing
This world of people, mighty and the weak
Flows like a river, down a deep dark creek..
Rest your head in quiet glen, let worlds drift by
Then close your weary eyes my child, and cry
Think of his love as you rest in that glen
Remember the love as ’twas there and then
And now dream of the happy days long gone
And of how softly he would sing love’s song
He’d sing those words in days now past
With love that you thought would just last and last
He would sing them, and then for only you
Then away to war; with his last ADIEU.