It Is More Blessed

Dublin Core


It Is More Blessed


Give! as the morning that flows out of heaven;
Give! as the waves when their channel is riven;
Give! as the free air and sunshine are given;

Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give.

Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing,
Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing,
Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing;

Give, as He gave thee, who gave thee to live.

Pour out thy love, like the rush of a river
Wasting its waters, forever and ever, 
Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver;

Silent or songful thou nearest the sea.

Scatter thy life as the summer showers pouring!
What if no bird thro' the pearl rain is soaring?
What if no blossom looks upward adoring?

Look to the life that was lavish'd for thee!

So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses,
Evil and thankless the desert it blesses,
Bitter the waves that its soft p[?] presses,

Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing.

What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses
What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes;
Sweetest in music with minor-keyed closes,

Fairest the vines that on ruins will cling.

Almost the day of thy giving is over!
Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted clover,
Thou wilt have vanish'd from friend and from lover:

What shall thy longing avail in the grave?

Give, as the heart gives, whose fetters are breaking,
Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking,
Soon heaven's river thy soul-fever sinking,

Thou shalt know God, and the gift that be gave




1:29, p. 4




Unattributed, “It Is More Blessed,” Periodical Poets, accessed July 25, 2024,


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