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Thanksgiving by Ella Wheeler Wilcox


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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 hand 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;

Far-seeing 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.

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