Sitting to-day in the sunshine, br That touched me with fingers of love, br I thought of the manifold blessings br God scatters on earth, from above; br And they seemed, as I numbered them over, br Far more than we merit, or need, br And all that we lack is the angels br To make earth a heaven indeed. br br The winter brings long, pleasant evenings, br The spring brings a promise of flowers br That summer breathes to fruition, br And autumn brings glad, golden hours. br The woodlands re-echo with music, br The moonbeams ensilver the sea; br There is sunlight and beauty about us, br And the world is as fair as can be. br br But mortals are always complaining, br Each one thinks his own a sad lot; br And forgetting the good things about him, br Goes mourning for those he has not. br Instead of the star-spangled heavens, br We look on the dust at our feet; br We drain out the cup that is bitter, br Forgetting the one that is sweet. br br We mourn o'er the thorn in the flower, br Forgetting its odour and bloom; br We pass by a garden of blossoms, br To weep o'er the dust of the tomb. br There are blessings unnumbered about us, - br Like the leaves of the forest they grow; br And the fault is our own - not the Giver's - br That we have not an Eden below.