A Thanksgiving.

I Thank Thee, boundless Giver,
    That the thoughts Thou givest flow
In sounds that like a river
    All through the darkness go.
And though few should swell the pleasure,
    By sharing this my wine,
My heart will clasp its treasure,
    This secret gift of Thine.

My heart the joy inherits,
    And will oft be sung to rest;
And some wandering hoping spirits
    May listen and be blest.
For the sound may break the hours
    In a dark and gloomy mood,
As the wind breaks up the bowers
    Of the brooding sunless wood.

For every sound of gladness
    Is a prophet-wind that tells
Of a summer without sadness,
    And a love without farewells;
And a heart that hath no ailing,
    And an eye that is not dim,
And a faith that without failing
    Shall be complete in Him.

And when my heart is mourning,
    The songs it lately gave,
Back to their fount returning,
    Make sweet the bitter wave;
And forth a new stream floweth,
    In sunshine winding fair;
And through the dark wood goeth
    Glad laughter on the air.

For the heart of man that waketh,
    Yet hath not ceased to dream,
Is the only fount that maketh
    The sweet and bitter stream.
But the sweet will still be flowing
    When the bitter stream is dry,
And glad music only going
    On the breezes of the sky.

I thank Thee, boundless Giver,
    That the thoughts Thou givest flow
In sounds that like a river
    All through the darkness go.
And though few should swell the pleasure
    By sharing this my wine,
My heart will clasp its treasure,
    This secret gift of Thine.