Thanksgiving Day Poems

 

The Harvest Moon

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes

And roofs of villages, on woodland crests

And their aerial neighborhoods of nests

Deserted, on the curtained window-panes

Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes

And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!

Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,

With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!

All things are symbols: the external shows

Of Nature have their image in the mind,

As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;

The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,

Only the empty nests are left behind,

And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

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Thanksgiving

by James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)

Let us be thankful—not only because

Since last our universal thanks were told

We have grown greater in the world’s applause,

And fortune’s newer smiles surpass the old—

But thankful for all things that come as alms

From out the open hand of Providence:—

The winter clouds and storms—the summer calms—

The sleepless dread—the drowse of indolence.

Let us be thankful—thankful for the prayers

Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed,

That they might fall upon us unawares,

And bless us, as in greater need we prayed.

Let us be thankful for the loyal hand

That love held out in welcome to our own,

When love and only love could understand

The need of touches we had never known.

Let us be thankful for the longing eyes

That gave their secret to us as they wept,

Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise,

Love’s touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept.

And let us, too, be thankful that the tears

Of sorrow have not all been drained away,

That through them still, for all the coming years,

We may look on the dead face of To-day.

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Thanksgiving Day

by Lydia Maria Child

Over the river, and through the wood,

To grandfather's house we go;

The horse knows the way

To carry the sleigh

Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood—

Oh, how the wind does blow!

It stings the toes

And bites the nose

As over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood,

To have a first-rate play.

Hear the bells ring

"Ting-a-ling-ding",

Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river, and through the wood

Trot fast, my dapple-gray!

Spring over the ground,

Like a hunting-hound!

For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river, and through the wood,

And straight through the barn-yard gate.

We seem to go

Extremely slow,—

It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood—

Now grandmother's cap I spy!

Hurrah for the fun!

Is the pudding done?

Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!

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Thanksgiving

Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)

We walk on starry fields of white

   And do not see the daisies;

For blessings common in our sight

   We rarely offer praises.

We sigh for some supreme delight

   To crown our lives with splendor,

And quite ignore our daily store

   Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way

   Upon our thought and feeling.

They hand about us all the day,

   Our time from pleasure stealing.

So unobtrusive many a joy

   We pass by and forget it,

But worry strives to own our lives,

   And conquers if we let it.

There’s not a day in all the year

   But holds some hidden pleasure,

And looking back, joys oft appear

   To brim the past’s wide measure.

But blessings are like friends, I hold,

   Who love and labor near us.

We ought to raise our notes of praise

   While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise

   Of worry or of trouble;

Far-seeing is the soul, and wise,

   Who knows the mask is double.

But he who has the faith and strength

   To thank his God for sorrow

Has found a joy without alloy

   To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes

   Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;

The hours and days a silent phrase

   Of music we are living.

And so the theme should swell and grow

   As weeks and months pass o’er us,

And rise sublime at this good time,

   A grand Thanksgiving chorus.

* * * * * * * * *

The Thanksgivings

by Harriet Maxwell Converse (1836-1903)

Translated from a traditional Iroquois prayer

We who are here present thank the Great Spirit that we are here to praise Him.

We thank Him that He has created men and women, and ordered that these beings shall always be living to multiply the earth.

We thank Him for making the earth and giving these beings its products to live on.

We thank Him for the water that comes out of the earth and runs for our lands.

We thank Him for all the animals on the earth.

We thank Him for certain timbers that grow and have fluids coming from them for us all.

We thank Him for the branches of the trees that grow shadows for our shelter.

We thank Him for the beings that come from the west, the thunder and lightning that water the earth.

We thank Him for the light which we call our oldest brother, the sun that works for our good.

We thank Him for all the fruits that grow on the trees and vines.

We thank Him for his goodness in making the forests, and thank all its trees.

We thank Him for the darkness that gives us rest, and for the kind Being of the darkness that gives us light, the moon.

We thank Him for the bright spots in the skies that give us signs, the stars.

We give Him thanks for our supporters, who had charge of our harvests.

We give thanks that the voice of the Great Spirit can still be heard through the words of Ga-ne-o-di-o.

We thank the Great Spirit that we have the privilege of this pleasant occasion.

We give thanks for the persons who can sing the Great Spirit's music, and hope they will be privileged to continue in his faith.

We thank the Great Spirit for all the persons who perform the ceremonies on this occasion.

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A Song for Merry Harvest

Eliza Cook (1818-1889)

Bring forth the harp, and let us sweep its fullest, loudest string.

The bee below, the bird above, are teaching us to sing
A song for merry harvest; and the one who will not bear
His grateful part partakes a boon he ill deserves to share.
The grasshopper is pouring forth his quick and trembling notes;
The laughter of the gleaner’s child, the heart’s own music floats.
Up! up! I say, a roundelay from every voice that lives
Should welcome merry harvest, and bless the God that gives.


The buoyant soul that loves the bowl may see the dark grapes shine,
And gems of melting ruby deck the ringlets of the vine;
Who prizes more the foaming ale may gaze upon the plain,
And feast his eye with yellow hops and sheets of bearded grain;
The kindly one whose bosom aches to see a dog unfed
May bend the knee in thanks to see the ample promised bread.
Awake, then, all! ’tis Nature’s call, and every voice that lives
Shall welcome merry harvest, and bless the God that gives.

* * * * * * * * *

A Thanksgiving Poem

Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

The sun hath shed its kindly light,

   Our harvesting is gladly o’er

Our fields have felt no killing blight,

   Our bins are filled with goodly store.

From pestilence, fire, flood, and sword

   We have been spared by thy decree,

And now with humble hearts, O Lord,

   We come to pay our thanks to thee.

We feel that had our merits been

   The measure of thy gifts to us,

We erring children, born of sin,

   Might not now be rejoicing thus.

No deed of our hath brought us grace;

   When thou were nigh our sight was dull,

We hid in trembling from thy face,

   But thou, O God, wert merciful.

Thy mighty hand o’er all the land

   Hath still been open to bestow

Those blessings which our wants demand

   From heaven, whence all blessings flow.

Thou hast, with ever watchful eye,

   Looked down on us with holy care,

And from thy storehouse in the sky

   Hast scattered plenty everywhere.

Then lift we up our songs of praise

   To thee, O Father, good and kind;

To thee we consecrate our days;

   Be thine the temple of each mind.

With incense sweet our thanks ascend;

   Before thy works our powers pall;

Though we should strive years without end,

   We could not thank thee for them all.

* * * * * * * * *

Grace for a Child

Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

Here, a little child I stand,

Heaving up my either hand:

Cold as paddocks though they be,

Here I lift them up to Thee,

For a benison to fall

On our meat, and on us all. Amen.

This poem is in the public domain.

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A Thank-Offering

Ella Higginson (1861-1940)

Lord God, the winter has been sweet and brief

     In this fair land;

For us the budded willow and the leaf,

     The peaceful strand.

For us the silver nights and golden days,

     The violet mist;

The pearly clouds pierced with vibrating rays

     Of amethyst.

At evening, every wave of our blue sea

     Hollowed to hold

A fragment of the sunset’s mystery—

     A fleck of gold.

The crimson haze is on the alder trees

     In places lush;

Already sings with sweet and lyric ease

     The western thrush.

Lord God, for some of us the days and years

     Have bitter been;

For some of us the burden and the tears,

     The gnawing sin.

For some of us, O God, the scanty store,

     The failing bin;

For some of us the gray wolf at the door,

     The red, within!

But to the hungry Thou hast given meat,

     Hast clothed the cold;

And Thou hast given courage strong and sweet

     To the sad and old.

And so we thank Thee, Thou most tender God,

     For the leaf and flower;

For the tempered winds, and quickening, velvet sod,

     And the gracious shower.

Yea, generous God, we thank Thee for this land

     Where all are fed,

Where at the doors no freezing beggars stand,

     Pleading for bread.

* * * * * * * * *

Thanksgiving Turkey

George Parsons Lathrop (1851-1898)

Valleys lay in sunny vapor,  

   And a radiance mild was shed

From each tree that like a taper

   At a feast stood. Then we said,

   "Our feast, too, shall soon be spread,

          Of good Thanksgiving turkey."

And already still November

   Drapes her snowy table here.

Fetch a log, then; coax the ember;

   Fill your hearts with old-time cheer;

   Heaven be thanked for one more year,

          And our Thanksgiving turkey!

Welcome, brothers—all our party

   Gathered in the homestead old!

Shake the snow off and with hearty

   Hand-shakes drive away the cold;

   Else your plate you'll hardly hold

          Of good Thanksgiving turkey.

When the skies are sad and murky,

   'Tis a cheerful thing to meet

Round this homely roast of turkey—

   Pilgrims, pausing just to greet,

   Then, with earnest grace, to eat

          A new Thanksgiving turkey.

And the merry feast is freighted

   With its meanings true and deep.

Those we've loved and those we've hated,

   All, to-day, the rite will keep,

   All, to-day, their dishes heap

          With plump Thanksgiving turkey.

But how many hearts must tingle

   Now with mournful memories!

In the festal wine shall mingle

   Unseen tears, perhaps from eyes

   That look beyond the board where lies

          Our plain Thanksgiving turkey.

See around us, drawing nearer,

   Those faint yearning shapes of air—

Friends than whom earth holds none dearer

   No—alas! they are not there:

   Have they, then, forgot to share

          Our good Thanksgiving turkey?

Some have gone away and tarried

   Strangely long by some strange wave;

Some have turned to foes; we carried

   Some unto the pine-girt grave:

   They'll come no more so joyous-brave

          To take Thanksgiving turkey.

Nay, repine not. Let our laughter

   Leap like firelight up again.

Soon we touch the wide Hereafter,

   Snow-field yet untrod of men:

   Shall we meet once more—and when?—

          To eat Thanksgiving turkey.

* * * * * * * * *

The Pumpkin

John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, 

The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, 

And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, 

With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, 

Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew, 

While he waited to know that his warning was true, 

And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain 

For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. 

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden 

Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden; 

And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 

Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold; 

Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, 

On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, 

Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, 

And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, 

From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest; 

When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board 

The old broken links of affection restored, 

When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, 

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, 

What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? 

What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie? 

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling, 

When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! 

When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, 

Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! 

When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, 

Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon, 

Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam 

In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! 

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better 

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! 

Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, 

Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine! 

And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, 

Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, 

That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, 

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, 

And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 

Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!