Praise is a quiet and a gracious thing,
Like buds slow-forming, where the woods are bare,
Or silent recognition of the spring
Waiting to break upon the tremulous air.
—Praise is a pillow to the tired head,
—A lamp to light the traveler on his way;
—It's the generous sacrament of bread
—Shared between strangers at the close of day.
Swift is the word of praise to soothe the smart
Of old defeats, to light the troubled face;
Sweeter, oh, sweeter to the thirsty heart
Than streams of water in a desert place!

Praise is a quiet and a gracious thing,
Like buds slow-forming, where the woods are bare,
Or silent recognition of the spring
Waiting to break upon the tremulous air.
—Praise is a pillow to the tired head,
—A lamp to light the traveler on his way;
—It's the generous sacrament of bread
—Shared between strangers at the close of day.
Swift is the word of praise to soothe the smart
Of old defeats, to light the troubled face;
Sweeter, oh, sweeter to the thirsty heart
Than streams of water in a desert place!