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 into 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.

Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917.

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