I, too, have often wished for Death’s embrace.
How foolish it seems now to call it hence
Or tempt it with a lack of simple grace
When wallowing in daily discontents.
Am Atlas, I? For burdens though I bear
They are mere pebbles and no boulder’s weight.
An inconvenience here, a trouble there:
Soon, Gratitude seems hard to cultivate.
Though hardy, it depends on tending hands
To keep it lush through winter’s barren days
And though it grows on unforgiving lands
Without due care it dies, too quickly fades away.
Instead of sheep, count blessings, for you’ll find
Their plentitude within a grateful mind.
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