Poemsby Emily Dickinson

Thanksgiving Day

 One day is there of the series
Termed Thanksgiving day,
Celebrated part at table,
Part in memory.
 Neither patriarch nor pussy,
I dissect the play;
Seems it, to my hooded thinking,
Reflex holiday.
 Had there been no sharp subtraction
From the early sum,
Not an acre or a caption
Where was once a room,
 Not a mention, whose small pebble
Wrinkled any bay, —
Unto such, were such assembly,
'T were Thanksgiving day.
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