Give Thanks!

11/13/2018 - 12:31:00 PM

toddler holding small pumpkin near bunch of assorted-size pumpkins

Brittney Dowell

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.

Wolf Moon with Barn

Dan Bush

The Harvest Moon

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.

Hilltop Farm, Winter 1949 Maxfield Parrish

Thanksgiving Day

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


 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!

four white and two red squashes on brown hays

Timothy Eberly

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, to

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!

gray clay jar

Clem Onojeghuo

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.

person holding rectangular black wooden photo frame with Give. Thanks. print

Simon Maage

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