THANKSGIVING

MARY WHEELER.

The sweet-brier boasts nor voice nor speech,
No tongue the clover hath;
Mute is the garden's rainbow reach;
Yet perfumed joy each breathes to each,
From June to aftermath.

The brown thrush knows nor chord nor scale,
The sparrow none hath taught;
No method guides the nightingale;
Yet doth not rhythmic rapture fail,
For bounties all unbought.

The tiger, prowling through the wood,
The snake, coiled in the sun,
The slum-waif,—what know these of good?
Yet they the sense-life's phantom food
Do blindly prize, each one.

I,—child of Love, Mind, Spirit, Truth,
Pure Science's all-power,
Beauty and concord, deathless youth,
The infinite of good, in sooth,—
I, having this in dower,—

Yea, lacking naught when God I seek,
And having eyes to see,
And ears to hear, and tongue to speak,—
Oh, shall not I, adoring, meek,
Bless God continually?