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Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Poems, animated gifs, messages for Thanksgiving Day
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving... It's time to love!
Gifs, messages, love poems
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Poems for Thanksgiving Day: The Pumpkin
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| by John Greenleaf Whittier (1850) | |
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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! |
A Thanksgiving Poem
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| from Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1905) | |
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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 ours hath brought us grace; When thou wert 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. |
The pure contralto sings in the organ loft (Thanksgiving Day)
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| from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman (1900) | |
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The pure contralto sings in the organ loft; The carpenter dresses his plank—the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp; The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner; The pilot seizes the king-pin—he heaves down with a strong arm; The mate stands braced in the whale-boat—lance and harpoon are ready; The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches; The deacons are ordain’d with cross’d hands at the altar; The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel; The farmer stops by the bars, as he walks on a First-day loafe, and looks at the oats and rye; The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum, a confirm’d case, (He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother’s bed-room;) The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case, He turns his quid of tobacco, while his eyes blurr with the manuscript; The malform’d limbs are tied to the surgeon’s table, What is removed drops horribly in a pail; The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand—the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove; The machinist rolls up his sleeves—the policeman travels his beat—the gate-keeper marks who pass; The young fellow drives the express-wagon—(I love him, though I do not know him;) The half-breed straps on his light boots to complete in the race; The western turkey-shooting draws old and young—some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs, Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece; The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee; As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle; The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other; The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof’d garret, and harks to the musical rain; The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron; The squaw, wrapt in her yellow-hemm’d cloth, is offering moccasins and bead-bags for sale; The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways; As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat, the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers; The young sister holds out the skein, while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots; The one-year wife is recovering and happy, having a week ago borne her first child; The clean-hair’d Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine, or in the factory or mill; The nine months’ gone is in the parturition chamber, her faintness and pains are advancing; The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer—the reporter’s lead flies swiftly over the note-book—the sign-painter is lettering with red and gold; The canal boy trots on the tow-path—the book-keeper counts at his desk—the shoemaker waxes his thread; The conductor beats time for the band, and all the performers follow him; The child is baptized—the convert is making his first professions; The regatta is spread on the bay—the race is begun—how the white sails sparkle! The drover, watching his drove, sings out to them that would stray; The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser higgling about the odd cent;) The camera and plate are prepared, the lady must sit for her daguerreotype; The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly; The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open’d lips; The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck; The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other; (Miserable! I do not laugh at your oaths, nor jeer you;) The President, holding a cabinet council, is surrounded by the Great Secretaries; On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms; The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold; The Missourian crosses the plains, toting his wares and his cattle; As the fare-collector goes through the train, he gives notice by the jingling of loose change; The floor-men are laying the floor—the tinners are tinning the roof—the masons are calling for mortar; In single file, each shouldering his hod, pass onward the laborers; Seasons pursuing each other, the indescribable crowd is gather’d—it is the Fourth of Seventh-month—(What salutes of cannon and small arms!) Seasons pursuing each other, the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground; Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface; The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe; Flatboatmen make fast, towards dusk, near the cottonwood or pekan-trees; Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river, or through those drain’d by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansaw; Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahoochee or Altamahaw; Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them; In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after their day’s sport; The city sleeps, and the country sleeps; The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time; The old husband sleeps by his wife, and the young husband sleeps by his wife; And these one and all tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them; And such as it is to be of these, more or less, I am. |
Poem for Thanksgiving Day: "One Day is there of the Series"
| Emily Dickinson | |
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 Sea, Unto Such, were such Assembly ’Twere Thanksgiving Day. |
Thanksgiving
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| by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1896) | |
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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 hang 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. Farseeing 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. |
Thanksgiving Song
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| from Happy Jack by Thornton W. Burgess (1918) | |
Thanksgiving comes but once a year, But when it comes it brings good cheer. For in my storehouse on this day Are piles of good things hid away. Each day I’ve worked from early morn To gather acorns, nuts, and corn, Till now I’ve plenty and to spare Without a worry or a care. So light of heart the whole day long, I’ll sing a glad Thanksgiving song. |
The Thanksgivings
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| translated from a traditional Iroquois song by Harriet Maxwell Converse (1908) | |
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. |
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Thanksgiving
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| by Kate Seymour Maclean (1880) | |
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The Autumn hills are golden at the top, And rounded as a poet’s silver rhyme; The mellow days are ruby ripe, that drop One after one into the lap of time. Dead leaves are reddening in the woodland copse, And forest boughs a fading glory wear; No breath of wind stirs in their hazy tops, Silence and peace are brooding everywhere. The long day of the year is almost done, And nature in the sunset musing stands, Gray-robed, and violet-hooded like a nun, Looking abroad o’er yellow harvest lands: O’er tents of orchard boughs, and purple vines With scarlet flecked, flung like broad banners out Along the field paths where slow-pacing lines Of meek-eyed kine obey the herdboy’s shout; Where the tired ploughman his dun oxen turns, Unyoked, afield, mid dewy grass to stray, While over all the village church spire burns— A shaft of flame in the last beams of day. Empty and folded are her busy hands; Her corn and wine and oil are safely stored, As in the twilight of the year she stands, And with her gladness seems to thank the Lord. Thus let us rest awhile from toil and care, In the sweet sabbath of this autumn calm, And lift our hearts to heaven in grateful prayer, And sing with nature our thanksgiving psalm. |
Poems for Thanksgiving Day: Over the River and Through the Wood
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| by Lydia Maria Child (1844) | |
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| 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, to Grandfather’s house away! We would not stop for doll or top, for ’tis Thanksgiving Day. 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. with a clear blue winter sky, The dogs do bark and the children hark, as we go jingling by. Over the river, and through the wood, to have a first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, “Ting a ling ding!” Hurray for Thanskgiving Day! Over the river, and through the wood— no matter for winds that blow; Or if we get the sleigh upset into a bank of snow. Over the river, and through the wood, to see little John and Ann; We will kiss them all, and play snowball and stay as long as we can. Over the river, and through the wood, trot fast my dapple gray! Spring over the ground like a hunting-hound! For ’tis Thanksgiving Day. Over the river, and through the wood and straight through the barnyard gate. We seem to go extremely slow— it is so hard to wait! Over the river, and through the wood— Old Jowler hears our bells; He shakes his paw with a loud bow-wow, and thus the news he tells. Over the river, and through the wood— when Grandmother sees us come, She will say, “O, dear, the children are here, bring pie for everyone.” 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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