Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823–1911)

AN EASY thing, O Power Divine,

To thank Thee for these gifts of Thine!

For summer’s sunshine, winter’s snow,

For hearts that kindle, thoughts that glow.

But when shall I attain to this,—

To thank Thee for the things I miss?

For all young Fancy’s early gleams,

The dreamed-of joys that still are dreams,

Hopes unfulfilled, and pleasures known

Through others’ fortunes, not my own,

And blessings seen that are not given,

And never will be, this side heaven.

Had I too shared the joys I see,

Would there have been a heaven for me?

Could I have felt Thy presence near,

Had I possessed what I held dear?

My deepest fortune, highest bliss,

Have grown perchance from things I miss.

Sometimes there comes an hour of calm;

Grief turns to blessing, pain to balm;

A Power that works above my will

Still leads me onward, upward still.

And then my heart attains to this,—

To thank Thee for the things I miss.