constancy.
I have failed again and again to give thanks cordially; for divine thanks is an act of constancy, and it is never festive, but humble. A thanks is a sip of water to the parched, and aren’t we the weakness that cries in rapture and enthusiasm— oh thank you, lord!
Still, a real thanks runs amok from grounds of vainglorious tones uttered as a response. A real thanks is soundless, speechless and pathless. It climbs the tree, ripples on the lake, and it is the hare in the clouds I see.
If we would teach the artfulness of thanks, perhaps we would teach its constancy: how its song never ceases, and how we have forgotten its words; they were never there after all.
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