Enough if thou give thanks to him
Who sent these leaves (forgive the whim)
Plucked from the dream-tree's sunniest limb.
My gratitude feels no eclipse,
For I, whate'er my other slips,
Shall have his kindness on my lips.
The prayers of Christian, Turk, and Jew
Have one sound up there in the blue,
And one smell all their incense, too.
Perhaps that smoke with incense ranks