We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of pleasures sweet and tender.
Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon our thought and feeling.
They hang about us all the day,
Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives
And conquers if we let it.
There's not a day in all the year
But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
To brim the past's wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
While living hearts can hear us.
Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry or of trouble.
Farseeing is the soul and wise
Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To gladden every morrow.
We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As weeks and months pass o'er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, published on Mon 01.17.2011 at 05:22
Beside us in our seeking after pleasures,
Through all our restless striving after fame,
written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, published on Thu 01.13.2011 at 21:52
Into the gloom of the deep, dark night,
With panting breath and a startled scream;
Swift as a bird in sudden flight
written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, published on Sun 01.09.2011 at 20:46
God, what a joy it is to plant a tree,
And from the sallow earth to watch it rise,
Lifting its emerald branches to the skies
written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, published on Sun 12.19.2010 at 20:07
Every morning, as I walk down
From my dreary lodgings, toward the town,
I see at a window, near the street,
written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, published on Sun 12.05.2010 at 07:22
The house is like a garden,
The children are the flowers,
The gardener should come methinks
And walk among his bowers,