Achsa White Sprague

Nov. 17, 1827 - Jul. 6, 1862


To One Who Called Me Ungrateful

by Achsa White Sprague

I'm not ungrateful, though I seem
To thee so base and weak;
I'm not ungrateful -- ne'er again
To me such dark words speak.

Think you that I remember not
The kindness done to me?
Think you I have forgotten all
My gratitude to thee?

What though I seem unheeding all
The blessings thou dost shower,
To all thy cheering words and deeds
In dark affliction's hour;

What though my lips speak not the thanks
That I have owed thee long;
Yet not the less around my heart
Do grateful feelings throng.

For every kindly word and deed,
For all thy tender care,
For happiness to thee and thine,
I breathe a fervent prayer.

A friend in need thou proved to me,
When storm-clouds swept the sky,
When wan disease was o'er me laid,
And dark affliction nigh.

For this my heart will thank thee, though
My lips are silent still,
For this will endless gratitude
To thee, my spirit fill.

And should you ever think me strange,
And cold, and most unkind,
Yet deeper still those thoughts shall burn,
Still deeper in my mind.

And if I never may repay
The bounties thou hast given,
Yet still rewarded thou shalt be, --
'Tis treasured up in Heaven!

An early poem, composed during sickness.


The Poet And Other Poems.
Copyright 1864
Boston: William White And Co.,
158 Washington Street.