The Poetry Corner

A Thanksgiving.

By George MacDonald

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.