Thanksgiving Turkey

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.

George Parsons Lathrop, 1851-1898, was an American poet, novelist, and newspaper editor. He married Nathaniel Hawthorne's daughter, Rose Hawthorne.

Brian Suntken

It’s my sixtieth trip around the sun this year. I share some wisdom, some photography, some poetry and prayers for the journey ahead.

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