To each his song of thankfulness; each heart its song of praise;
and some will think of fertile fields, of golden wheat and maize;
and some will think of clinking gold, of solid pompous wealth;
and some will think of Love’s high gift, and some will think of health.
But this my song of thankfulness, and this my song of praise—
thank God for all the friendly books, for every magic phrase;
for all the clever laughing books; for books that make one weep;
for books one reads to little folks that they may sweetly sleep.
To each his song of thankfulness; for me this song of praise—
thank God for all the lilting books, the rhythmic, glowing lays;
for all the rich romantic books; for books like gentle hands;
for books that take us on winged words to spirit-healing lands!
Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
The Wordsmith's Pen 