Count Your Blessings

By William Henry Dawson

It’s strange but true that common things,
Like sunshine, rain and snow,
The happy little bird that sings,
The fragrant flowers that grow;
The meals with which we’re blessed each day,
The sweet sleep of the night,
The friends who ever with us stay,
The shadows and the light,
The tender care of mother dear,
The kiss of loving wife,
The baby prattle that we hear—
The best things in our life—
Are not loved by us half so well
As things that seem more rare.
For instance some old, broken bell,
Or stone picked up somewhere;
An ancient coin with unknown date,
An arrow head of stone,
Or piece of broken armor plate
Worn by some one unknown.
Exclusive ownership we crave,
No matter what the prize—
True from the cradle to the grave,
Of foolish and of wise.
Oh, selfish mortal, don’t you know
‘Twould better be, by far,
If you would train your love to grow
Among the things that are
Just common to your daily life?
You’ve blessings by the score,
Then why engage in constant strife
For more, and more, and more?

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