We walk on starry fields of white <br />And do not see the daisies; <br />For blessings common in our sight <br />We rarely offer praises. <br />We sigh for some supreme delight <br />To crown our lives with splendor, <br />And quite ignore our daily store <br />Of pleasures sweet and tender. <br /> <br />Our cares are bold and push their way <br />Upon our thought and feeling. <br />They hang about us all the day, <br />Our time from pleasure stealing. <br />So unobtrusive many a joy <br />We pass by and forget it, <br />But worry strives to own our lives <br />And conquers if we let it. <br /> <br />There's not a day in all the year <br />But holds some hidden pleasure, <br />And looking back, joys oft appear <br />To brim the past's wide measure. <br /> <br />But blessings are like friends, I hold, <br />Who love and labor near us. <br />We ought to raise our notes of praise <br />While living hearts can hear us. <br /> <br />Full many a blessing wears the guise <br />Of worry or of trouble. <br />Farseeing is the soul and wise <br />Who knows the mask is double. <br />But he who has the faith and strength <br />To thank his God for sorrow <br />Has found a joy without alloy <br />To gladden every morrow. <br /> <br />We ought to make the moments notes <br />Of happy, glad Thanksgiving; <br />The hours and days a silent phrase <br />Of music we are living. <br />And so the theme should swell and grow <br />As weeks and months pass o'er us, <br />And rise sublime at this good time, <br />A grand Thanksgiving chorus.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thanksgiving-2/
