A fresh picked rose beside my bed,
the coffee pot there, 
hot there when I raise my head.
Each day the first thing that I see:
his little gifts of love for me.

When days were cold,
when nights were rough,
I thought his small ways always
ought to be enough.
So now why should my smile be dim,
accepting gifts of love from him?

Oh, it's time I stop to think, time I start to learn,
time I gave him something in return.

I'll share his bed, return his touch,
let old dreams die now, by now
I shouldn't mind so much.
And this I swear to God above:
To give him gifts,
he'll think they're gifts,
to him they'll seem my gifts of love.