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Count Your Blessings
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?

This poem is in the public domain.

Despite extensive research, we have been unable to find biographical information about William Henry Dawson (1865 - 1928) other than publication of several books. If you have information about this poet, please contact us.




Post New Comment:
Wilda Morris:
A good reminder!
Posted 01/16/2021 06:16 PM
michael escoubas:
Those last two lines . . . eternally true!
Posted 01/11/2021 11:42 AM
I may buy lottery tickets.
Posted 01/11/2021 08:58 AM
Larry Schug:
Well, as that old song by The Seeds says--Sha La La La La La La, Live for Today.
Posted 01/11/2021 08:34 AM

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