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.