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.