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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

A Thanksgiving

By Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

LORD, thou hast given me a cell

Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof

Is weather-proof;

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 small;

A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread

Unchipt, unflead.

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:

The worts, the purslane, and the mess

Of water-cress,

Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;

And my content

Makes those, and my belovèd beet,

To be more sweet.

’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 sows my land;

All this, and better, dost thou send

Me for this end:

That I should render for my part

A thankful heart,

Which, fired with incense, I resign

As wholly thine;

But the acceptance—that must be

O Lord, by thee.