  Nature, erewhile so marvelously lovely, is bereft Of her supernal charm; And with the few dead garlands of departed splendor left, Like crape upon her arm, In boreal hints, and sudden gusts That fan the glowing ember, By multitude of ways fulfills The promise of November. Upon the path where Beauty, sylvan priestess, sped away, Lies the rich afterglow Of Indian Summer, bringing round the happy holiday That antedates the snow: The glad Thanksgiving time, the cheer, The festival commotion That stirs fraternal feeling from The mountains to the ocean. O Hospitality! unclose thy bounty-laden hand In generous dealing, where Is gathered in reunion each long-severed household band, And let no vacant chair In love's dear chain is broken— A symbol more pathetic than By language ever spoken. Into the place held sacred to the memory of some Beloved absentee, Perchance passed to the other shore, oh, let the stranger come And in gratuity Partake of festal favors that Shall sweeten hours of labor, And strengthen amity and love Unto his friend and neighbor. Let gratitude's pure incense in warm orisons ascend, A blessing to secure, And gracious impulse bearing largesse of good gifts extend To all deserving poor; So may the day be hallowed by Unstinted thanks and giving, In sweet remembrance of the dead And kindness to the living. |
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