A THANKSGIVING
By Robert Herrick
I found it in a 1921 6th grade reader
Lord, Thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell -
A little house whose humble roof
Is weatherproof -
Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry;
Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.
Low is my porch as is my fate -
Both void of state -
And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor
Who hither come and freely get
Good words or meat.
Like as my parlor, so my hall
And kitchen's small.
A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipped, unfled.
Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.
Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,
And all those other bits that be
There placed by Thee.
'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth,
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land,
And giv'st me for my bushel sown
Twice ten for one.
All these and better Thou dost send
Me to this end -
That I should render, for my part,
A thankful heart;
Which, fired with incense, I resing
As wholly Thine -
But the acceptance, that must be,
My God, by Thee. | 
