Thanksgiving Poems

A broad collection of Thanksgiving poetry.... Blessed are those who remain grateful in all of life's circumstances

The Pilgrims Came by Annette Wynne The Pilgrims came across the sea, And never thought of you and me; And yet it's very strange the way We think of them Thanksgiving day. We tell their story, old and true Of how they sailed across the blue, And found a new land to be free And built their homes quite near the sea. Every child knows well the tale Of how they bravely turned the sail And journeyed many a day and night, To worship God as they thought right.   The Landing of the Pilgrims by Felicia Dorothea Hemans The breaking waves dashed high, On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear;-- They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free! The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roared-- This was their welcome home! There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- They sought a faith's pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod. They have left unstained what there they found-- Freedom to worship God. Thanksgiving Day by 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, 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 barnyard 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 One Blessed, Single Plateful by Deborah Ann Belka On Thanksgiving day this year, before the turkey starts roasting my thanks, I will be singing for the dinner I’ll be hosting. I will set the dining table, with the gratitude I feel before anyone comes to feast upon the meal. I will spread the hope, that I’m feeling inside before I even serve . . . the food that God supplied. I will polish up on all, the reasons I’m thankful before I even dish up one blessed, single plateful. On Thanksgiving day this year, before the food I present I will let everyone know . . . just why it is I'm so content Highest Thanks by Douglas Knighton O God Most High, you reign supreme above While petty sovereigns squabble here with claims About their mighty powers to push and shove Their rivals, hoping to enhance their names. Earth’s kings preside with bluster and profane Attempts to garner praise for fleeting fame; But all their pomp is ultimately vain, For you, Most High, deserve the most acclaim. O God Most High, your name evokes our praise, For righteousness adorns your gracious reign; Your faithfulness flows into all our days And kindness fills the breadth of your domain. So as your righteous, godly saints we raise Our thanks with joy in grateful songs of praise What Happened To Thanksgiving Day? by Margaret Cagle The family gathered at Grandma's house. It was the tradition year after year. When Thanksgiving Day rolled around, They all were expected to be here. They sat down to a Thanksgiving meal, And Uncle John gave thanks for the food. Some wanted the meal to be over, But they really didn't want to be rude. They enjoyed the turkey and fixings As they chattered about family news. Then the ladies brought out desserts, So many from which they could choose. Then Cousin Jane arose to excuse herself. "Grandma, your pies look really swell, But Black Friday has already started, And I am now late for a special sale." Soon Cousin Tim slipped from his chair. He said "Goodbye" to one and all. "I am meeting my friends at the movies. There's a new one showing at the mall." Then Uncle Jim heard a honking horn. "That must be my co-worker, Nate. We're hunting for the rest of the day. Grandma, the meal was just great!" At the day's end, Grandma was alone, And she got down on her knees to pray. "I love You, Lord, and I give You thanks, But what happened to Thanksgiving Day?" Grace of Gratitude by Kittredge The day has dissipated into dusk, and we have come together. Each one of us our path has run, and returned unhurt with setting sun to enjoy our bonds that tether. We thank you Lord for this reunion and food that soon will satiate. Continue to guard us through the night until dark recedes from morning's light. Our blessings we shall contemplate. In the taking of this sustenance, we express thanks for this good meal, and remember Jesus who shared His plate while telling of His pending fate. May He know the gratitude we feel.

Thank You Lord by Roger Horsch I thank you Lord for hearing me When I get on my knees to pray I thank you Lord every day for life As I go from day to day. I thank you Lord for your sacrifice When you died on the cross for me I once walked through life being blinded But, because of you I now can see. I thank you Lord for the miracles you send Your love, forgiveness and grace I thank you Lord for carrying me When I could no longer set the pace. I thank you Lord for lifting me My spirit you lift so high I thank you Lord when I'm feeling down 'cause you give me the will to try. You gave me the path to eternal life And, only you my Lord know when The day I can thank you face to face In Jesus name, Amen Day Star by Deborah Ann Belka My Day Star arises, with the morning light He shines in dark places all through the night. When the dawn breaks, He gets up with me and all of His splendor my eyes, open to see. He enlightens my soul, with His glory and grace and His love I can feel bringing joy to my face. His Spirit rests on me, in my soul, He quakes when I read His Word my heart to Him shapes. I seek Him each morn, His wisdom He bestows the Light of the world in my life, forever glows Thanksgiving In The USA by Margaret Cagle Near the end of November in the USA Is our national Thanksgiving Day. We close stores, schools, and banks And give to God our special thanks. It is a time for us to celebrate From coast to coast and state to state. We think of when the Pilgrims came To these shores in freedom's name. The first Thanksgiving was long ago. This bit of history we all know. A time for thanking their God above Was set aside to show their love. When blessings came, they had a feast. They were not sorry in the least For coming to this vast, barren land. For freedom to worship, they did stand. From that first Thanksgiving Day Until the present one we can say, "Thank you, God, for blessings great! You are the reason we celebrate! My Mayflower Adventures by Margaret Cagle In November of sixty-seven, We decided to take a trip. We wanted to see the replica Of the famous Mayflower ship. My husband worked near Boston, So Plymouth was not far away. We could drive over to the ship And return home that same day. David was in the first grade. Our son was just six-years-old. "Pilgrims came on the Mayflower," In school he had been told. In order to go on the Mayflower, We'd have to pay an entrance fee, And we only had a dollar in cash, Not enough for a group of three. "I really don't feel like going On the Mayflower," I did declare. I was expecting our second child, So I could not climb on there. "If I take David on the ship, I have to have one dollar more." My husband seemed discouraged As we walked along the shore. I silently prayed that the Lord Would somehow provide a way For my husband to take our son On the Mayflower ship that day. A breeze was blowing the leaves As we continued walking that day. I looked down to see a dollar Blowing straight toward my way. I picked up the God-sent dollar. We rejoiced for answered prayer. David said as he went with his dad, "Mom, one day you can go on there." It was thirty-four years later, After my husband had passed away, I took a trip with my family. We went to Plymouth one day. We all went on the Mayflower ship. I remembered what David had said. I was astonished at the amazing way That our awesome Lord had led A Thanksgiving Blessing by Margaret Cagle Greta was a single parent. She had one little boy. She had a son named Kevin. He was her pride and joy. Kevin came home from school. Thanksgiving was a day away. He asked, "Will we have turkey To eat on Thanksgiving Day?" "No, Son, there's no turkey. Rent was due; I had to pay it. The late fee is too high to pay, So I really couldn't delay it." "We have some turkey hot dogs, Corn, potatoes, and pudding too. We'll have enough to eat, Son. There's plenty for me and you." "Mom, I'm praying for a turkey." So Kevin dropped to his knees. "Lord, please send us a turkey To eat on Thanksgiving, please." Nightfall came, and little Kevin Was getting ready to go to bed. "Mommy, I am still praying for God to send a turkey," he said. "Okay, Kevin dear," said Greta. She felt worse than ever before. Then Greta became very startled By a knock on the front door. It was her next door neighbor. It was friendly Mister Foxx. He was holding something heavy In a hugh, clumsy cardboard box. "Do you all have a turkey, Greta?" "No, Kevin is praying for one." "Well, now his prayer is answered. Here's one for you and your son." "Thank you so much, Mr. Foxx! I'm thankful for those who care!" "Praise the Lord!" yelled Kevin. I know the Lord answers prayer! Age of Entitlement by Janet Martin What spurs the seasons of this life Which bleed upon the sod? We squander love and hate alike To serve lust's lesser god Freedom is not entitlement To please our shallow pride On autumn's crimson diadem Brave men of honor died Beneath the gray November sky Beneath the warm spring sun Beneath the fireworks of July Our freedom has begun Dare we to spill one hallowed breath In thoughtless chivalry, Or live as though we own the earth Bought once through history? Seasons and mankind mark the soil Where soldier's blood-drops fell If freedom's cost evades our toil Then we are bound for hell What spurs the seasons treading time? Tis not entitlement That brings the rain or sun to shine On meadows that we plant We gather harvest of the field Yet, who evokes the sod? Can we preserve our freedom's shield Yet spurn the hand of God? Excess of things leaves senses dulled To need and poverty Our reckoning is not annulled By our prosperity Winter, spring, summer and fall Will we be diligent? Or blindly stumble through them all Pleading entitlement? Thanksgiving in Minnesota by George Cuff We would wake up early Thanksgiving morn to special kitchen sounds. Mom was preparing to roast the stuffed turkey until it was golden brown. The kitchen looked like a surgical suite with knives and utensils galore. There were potatoes to peel, pies to be cut and cranberries from the store. "It's cereal for you my boys," she said, "and then you can play outdoors. But first get dressed and help your dad finish the morning chores. Gather the eggs and feed the chickens; dress warm; its cold out today. After breakfast there will be time to go outside and play." We had a big barn with hay stored up top to feed our livestock cattle. We played war in hay-bale mountains winning many a battle. After the hay was cleared on one end, we created a basketball court. Minnesota boys playing in the barn enjoying a winter sport. The weather may be chilling outside but  the livestock kept the barn warm. Inside the lighted basketball hoop; outside a white winter storm. Grandpa and Grandma arrived before noon to join the celebration. Aunts and uncles and cousins would come to stay for the day's duration. Uncle Jack would play basketball with the older girls and boys. The basketball court up in the barn was filled with joyful noise. Dad and Grandpa and Uncle Bob would watch the Macy's parade, While Mom and Lois, Eldora and Grandma prepared a feast homemade. Pretty soon we would hear the call that it was time to enjoy the feast. Grandpa would pray thanking the Lord  for blessings that had increased. Then we would eat an incredible meal of turkey, potatoes and gravy, Yams, green beans and cranberry sauce with flavor tart and savory. The parents would talk about the pies and decide to serve it later. All the cousins would go outside to show their skill as skaters. Home-made ice rinks are easy to make in a cold Minnesota clime. Ice skates and hockey are a great way to enjoy the winter time. After some skating the tables were cleared and games set out to play. Many a fierce Monopoly game took place on Thanksgiving Day. Some played dominos, the girls played Rummy, and some would read a book, But my favorite game (and it's not for dummies) is a game called Rook. Somewhere in the middle of all this wonderful family activity The moms would serve the various pies, which only enhanced the festivity. Pie and turkey and left over feast were laid out for the taking. We would eat and indulge ourselves until our stomach was aching. Grandpa and Grandma, Mom and Dad, Aunt Lois and Uncle Jack, Bob and Eldora, Cherrie and Bobbie and Sheila coming last, Brian and Greg and Bradley Todd, my infant baby brother, What a blessing to have a family that loves and enjoys each other! The years have passed and were far apart  but our memories are alive. Each year we recall them affectionately when the holidays arrive. So here's a greeting to all my kin with love  from the depths of my heart. I remember you warmly with love today even though we're miles apart Grateful by Paul Zimmerman Jr. It's that time of year again The leaves scattered on the ground To give thanks to God, Amen ! For our loved ones all around I know I haven't said it much And not very often sad to say But I sure love my mom and dad And my sister every day I'm grateful for my nieces too Seeing them grow up was a blast The early years just moved so slow The latter much too fast God has blessed us one and all Through good times and the bad Sometimes the only ones to call Were the family that we had So I come before you now With gratitude and prayer That we are gathered once again All together here To thank the Lord for all we have And for those of whom we care For all of our provisions now At this most special time of year Bless this time and bless our food And bless us when we go Thank you for the memories of Another year we've come to know The Voice of Thanksgiving by Deborah Ann Belka May the voice of thanksgiving, be heard joyfully today . . . may words of gratefulness be sung heartily as we pray. May our heartfelt thoughts, offer God His due praise may we be grateful as our thanks to Him we raise. May the voice of gratitude, be heard loud and clear may our humble thanks be detected by every ear. May our praises be told, at our dinner tables may our thanks go beyond Thanksgiving Day staples. May the voice of thanksgiving, be our joyful noise today . . . may our words of gratitude be heard by God everyday Beyond Thanksgiving Day by Deborah Ann Belka Thanksgiving is more, than food and football it goes way beyond . . . turkey on the table. Thanksgiving isn't about, just one meal we share it goes way further . . . then a dinner prayer. Thanksgiving is about, each day of the year making sure our praise God is able to hear. Thanksgiving isn't about, a single day with family it goes way past . . . our sated apathy. Thanksgiving is about, being thankful for all things no matter what in this life . . .  Heartfelt Graditude by Deborah Ann Belka Lord, may I always have, an appreciative attitude one filled with adoration thanksgiving and gratitude. May I always be grateful, whether sick or healthy may I always be thankful be I penniless or wealthy. Lord, may I be thankful, to You, for all things happy with the provision Your daily grace brings. May I always be glad, to receive Your benefits may my praise to You to the world be evident. Lord, may I always have, a heartfelt gratitude . . . coursing through my life gushing out in my attitude Fire Dreams by Carl Sandburg I remember here by the fire, In the flickering reds and saffrons, They came in a ramshackle tub, Pilgrims in tall hats, Pilgrims of iron jaws, Drifting by weeks on beaten seas, And the random chapters say They were glad and sang to God. And so Since the iron-jawed men sat down And said, “Thanks, O God," For life and soup and a little less Than a hobo handout to-day, Since gray winds blew gray patterns of sleet on Plymouth Rock, Since the iron-jawed men sang “Thanks, O God," You and I, O Child of the West, Remember more than ever November and the hunter’s moon, November and the yellow-spotted hills. And so In the name of the iron-jawed men I will stand up and say yes till the finish is come and gone. God of all broken hearts, empty hands, sleeping soldiers, God of all star-flung beaches of night sky, I and my love-child stand up together to-day and sing: “Thanks, O God" Thanksgiving Time poem by Langston Hughes When the night winds whistle through the  trees and blow the crisp brown leaves a-crackling down, When the autumn moon is big and yellow-orange and round, When old Jack Frost is sparkling on the ground, It's Thanksgiving Time! When the pantry jars are full of mince-meat and  the shelves are laden with sweet spices for a cake, When the butcher man sends up a turkey nice and fat to bake, When the stores are crammed with everything ingenious cooks can make, It's Thanksgiving Time! When the gales of coming winter outside your window howl, When the air is sharp and cheery so it drives away your scowl, When one's appetite craves turkey and will have no other fowl, It's Thanksgiving Time!

Thanksgiving BY EDGAR ALBERT GUEST Gettin’ together to smile an’ rejoice, An’ eatin’ an’ laughin’ with folks of your choice; An’ kissin’ the girls an’ declarin’ that they Are growin’ more beautiful day after day; Chattin’ an’ braggin’ a bit with the men, Buildin’ the old family circle again; Livin’ the wholesome an’ old-fashioned cheer, Just for awhile at the end of the year. Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door And under the old roof we gather once more Just as we did when the youngsters were small; Mother’s a little bit grayer, that’s all. Father’s a little bit older, but still Ready to romp an’ to laugh with a will. Here we are back at the table again Tellin’ our stories as women an’ men. Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer; Oh, but we’re grateful an’ glad to be there. Home from the east land an’ home from the west, Home with the folks that are dearest an’ best. Out of the sham of the cities afar We’ve come for a time to be just what we are. Here we can talk of ourselves an’ be frank, Forgettin’ position an’ station an’ rank. Give me the end of the year an’ its fun When most of the plannin’ an’ toilin’ is done; Bring all the wanderers home to the nest, Let me sit down with the ones I love best, Hear the old voices still ringin’ with song, See the old faces unblemished by wrong, See the old table with all of its chairs An’ I’ll put soul in my Thanksgivin’ prayers Thanksgiving Magic BY ROWENA BASTIN BENNETT Thanksgiving Day I like to see Our cook perform her witchery. She turns a pumpkin into pie As easily as you or I Can wave a hand or wink an eye. She takes leftover bread and muffin And changes them to turkey stuffin’. She changes cranberries to sauce And meats to stews and stews to broths; And when she mixes gingerbread It turns into a man instead With frosting collar ’round his throat And raisin buttons down his coat. Oh, some like magic made by wands,    And some read magic out of books, And some like fairy spells and charms    But I like magic made by cooks First Thanksgiving BY SHARON OLDS When she comes back, from college, I will see the skin of her upper arms, cool, matte, glossy. She will hug me, my old soupy chest against her breasts, I will smell her hair! She will sleep in this apartment, her sleep like an untamed, good object, like a soul in a body. She came into my life the second great arrival, after him, fresh from the other world—which lay, from within him, within me. Those nights, I fed her to sleep, week after week, the moon rising, and setting, and waxing—whirling, over the months, in a slow blur, around our planet. Now she doesn’t need love like that, she has had it. She will walk in glowing, we will talk, and then, when she’s fast asleep, I’ll exult to have her in that room again, behind that door! As a child, I caught bees, by the wings, and held them, some seconds, looked into their wild faces, listened to them sing, then tossed them back into the air—I remember the moment the arc of my toss swerved, and they entered the corrected curve of their departure Thanksgiving for Two BY MARJORIE SAISER The adults we call our children will not be arriving with their children in tow for Thanksgiving. We must make our feast ourselves, slice our half-ham, indulge, fill our plates, potatoes and green beans carried to our table near the window. We are the feast, plenty of years, arguments. I’m thinking the whole bundle of it rolls out like a white tablecloth. We wanted to be good company for one another. Little did we know that first picnic how this would go. Your hair was thick, mine long and easy; we climbed a bluff to look over a storybook plain. We chose our spot as high as we could, to see the river and the checkerboard fields. What we didn’t see was this day, in our pajamas if we want to, wrinkled hands strong, wine in juice glasses, toasting whatever’s next, the decades of side-by-side, our great good luck Perhaps the World Ends Here BY JOY HARJO The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place  to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite When the Frost is on the Punkin BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock, And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens, And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best, With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock. They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here— Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees; But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock— When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock. The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!— O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock! Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ... I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me— I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock— When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock Signs of the Times BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR Air a-gittin' cool an' coolah,    Frost a-comin' in de night, Hicka' nuts an' wa'nuts fallin',    Possum keepin' out o' sight. Tu'key struttin' in de ba'nya'd,    Nary step so proud ez his; Keep on struttin', Mistah Tu'key,    Yo' do' know whut time it is. Cidah press commence a-squeakin'    Eatin' apples sto'ed away, Chillun swa'min' 'roun' lak ho'nets,    Huntin' aigs ermung de hay. Mistah Tu'key keep on gobblin'    At de geese a-flyin' souf, Oomph! dat bird do' know whut's comin';    Ef he did he'd shet his mouf. Pumpkin gittin' good an' yallah    Mek me open up my eyes; Seems lak it's a-lookin' at me    Jes' a-la'in' dah sayin' "Pies." Tu'key gobbler gwine 'roun' blowin',    Gwine 'roun' gibbin' sass an' slack; Keep on talkin', Mistah Tu'key,    You ain't seed no almanac. Fa'mer walkin' th'oo de ba'nya'd    Seein' how things is comin' on, Sees ef all de fowls is fatt'nin'—    Good times comin' sho's you bo'n. Hyeahs dat tu'key gobbler braggin',    Den his face break in a smile— Nebbah min', you sassy rascal,    He's gwine nab you atter while. Choppin' suet in de kitchen,    Stonin' raisins in de hall, Beef a-cookin' fu' de mince meat,    Spices groun'—I smell 'em all. Look hyeah, Tu'key, stop dat gobblin',    You ain' luned de sense ob feah, You ol' fool, yo' naik's in dangah,    Do' you know Thanksgibbin's hyeah November BY MAGGIE DIETZ Show's over, folks. And didn't October do A bang-up job? Crisp breezes, full-throated cries Of migrating geese, low-floating coral moon. Nothing left but fool's gold in the trees. Did I love it enough, the full-throttle foliage, While it lasted? Was I dazzled? The bees Have up and quit their last-ditch flights of forage And gone to shiver in their winter clusters. Field mice hit the barns, big squirrels gorge On busted chestnuts. A sky like hardened plaster Hovers. The pasty river, its next of kin, Coughs up reed grass fat as feather dusters. Even the swarms of kids have given in To winter's big excuse, boxed-in allure: TVs ricochet light behind pulled curtains. The days throw up a closed sign around four. The hapless customer who'd wanted something Arrives to find lights out, a bolted door My Triumph BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER The autumn-time has come; On woods that dream of bloom, And over purpling vines, The low sun fainter shines. The aster-flower is failing, The hazel’s gold is paling; Yet overhead more near The eternal stars appear! And present gratitude Insures the future’s good, And for the things I see I trust the things to be; That in the paths untrod, And the long days of God, My feet shall still be led, My heart be comforted. O living friends who love me! O dear ones gone above me! Careless of other fame, I leave to you my name. Hide it from idle praises, Save it from evil phrases: Why, when dear lips that spake it Are dumb, should strangers wake it? Let the thick curtain fall; I better know than all How little I have gained, How vast the unattained. Not by the page word-painted Let life be banned or sainted: Deeper than written scroll The colors of the soul. Sweeter than any sung My songs that found no tongue; Nobler than any fact My wish that failed of act. Others shall sing the song, Others shall right the wrong,— Finish what I begin, And all I fail of win. What matter, I or they? Mine or another’s day, So the right word be said And life the sweeter made? Hail to the coming singers! Hail to the brave light-bringers! Forward I reach and share All that they sing and dare. The airs of heaven blow o’er me; A glory shines before me Of what mankind shall be,— Pure, generous, brave, and free. A dream of man and woman Diviner but still human, Solving the riddle old, Shaping the Age of Gold! The love of God and neighbor; An equal-handed labor; The richer life, where beauty Walks hand in hand with duty. Ring, bells in unreared steeples, The joy of unborn peoples! Sound, trumpets far off blown, Your triumph is my own! Parcel and part of all, I keep the festival, Fore-reach the good to be, And share the victory. I feel the earth move sunward, I join the great march onward, And take, by faith, while living, My freehold of thanksgiving Praise Song for the Day BY ELIZABETH ALEXANDER Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each other’s eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair. Someone is trying to make music somewhere, with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum, with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice. A woman and her son wait for the bus. A farmer considers the changing sky. A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin. We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed, words to consider, reconsider. We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of some one and then others, who said I need to see what’s on the other side. I know there’s something better down the road. We need to find a place where we are safe. We walk into that which we cannot yet see. Say it plain: that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of. Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign, the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables. Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself, others by first do no harm or take no more than you need. What if the mightiest word is love? Love beyond marital, filial, national, love that casts a widening pool of light, love with no need to pre-empt grievance. In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, any thing can be made, any sentence begun. On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp, praise song for walking forward in that light.

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