Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Our Blessings

Sitting to-day in the sunshine, 
That touched me with fingers of love, 
I thought of the manifold blessings
God scatters on earth, from above; 
And they seemed, as I numbered them over, 
Far more than we merit, or need, 
And all that we lack is the angels
To make earth a heaven indeed.

The winter brings long, pleasant evenings, 
The spring brings a promise of flowers
That summer breathes to fruition, 
And autumn brings glad, golden hours.
The woodlands re-echo with music, 
The moonbeams ensilver the sea; 
There is sunlight and beauty about us, 
And the world is as fair as can be.

But mortals are always complaining, 
Each one thinks his own a sad lot; 
And forgetting the good things about him, 
Goes mourning for those he has not.
Instead of the star-spangled heavens, 
We look on the dust at our feet; 
We drain out the cup that is bitter, 
Forgetting the one that is sweet.

We mourn o’er the thorn in the flower, 
Forgetting its odour and bloom; 
We pass by a garden of blossoms, 
To weep o’er the dust of the tomb.
There are blessings unnumbered about us, -
Like the leaves of the forest they grow; 
And the fault is our own - not the Giver’s -
That we have not an Eden below.