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Best Famous Thanksgiving Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Thanksgiving poems. This is a select list of the best famous Thanksgiving poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Thanksgiving poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of thanksgiving poems.

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Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery |

November Evening

 Come, for the dusk is our own; let us fare forth together,
With a quiet delight in our hearts for the ripe, still, autumn weather,
Through the rustling valley and wood and over the crisping meadow,
Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist and shadow.
Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far hill-gaps showing Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green are glowing; 'Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward, unfettered roaming, Caring for naught save the charm, elusive and swift, of the gloaming.
Watchful and stirless the fields as if not unkindly holding Harvested joys in their clasp, and to their broad bosoms folding Baby hopes of a Spring, trusted to motherly keeping, Thus to be cherished and happed through the long months of their sleeping.
Silent the woods are and gray; but the firs than ever are greener, Nipped by the frost till the tang of their loosened balsam is keener; And one little wind in their boughs, eerily swaying and swinging, Very soft and low, like a wandering minstrel is singing.
Beautiful is the year, but not as the springlike maiden Garlanded with her hopes­rather the woman laden With wealth of joy and grief, worthily won through living, Wearing her sorrow now like a garment of praise and thanksgiving.
Gently the dark comes down over the wild, fair places, The whispering glens in the hills, the open, starry spaces; Rich with the gifts of the night, sated with questing and dreaming, We turn to the dearest of paths where the star of the homelight is gleaming.

Written by Joyce Kilmer |


 (For Eleanor Rogers Cox)

For blows on the fort of evil
That never shows a breach,
For terrible life-long races
To a goal no foot can reach,
For reckless leaps into darkness
With hands outstretched to a star,
There is jubilation in Heaven
Where the great dead poets are.
There is joy over disappointment And delight in hopes that were vain.
Each poet is glad there was no cure To stop his lonely pain.
For nothing keeps a poet In his high singing mood Like unappeasable hunger For unattainable food.
So fools are glad of the folly That made them weep and sing, And Keats is thankful for Fanny Brawne And Drummond for his king.
They know that on flinty sorrow And failure and desire The steel of their souls was hammered To bring forth the lyric fire.
Lord Byron and Shelley and Plunkett, McDonough and Hunt and Pearse See now why their hatred of tyrants Was so insistently fierce.
Is Freedom only a Will-o'-the-wisp To cheat a poet's eye? Be it phantom or fact, it's a noble cause In which to sing and to die! So not for the Rainbow taken And the magical White Bird snared The poets sing grateful carols In the place to which they have fared; But for their lifetime's passion, The quest that was fruitless and long, They chorus their loud thanksgiving To the thorn-crowned Master of Song.

Written by John Greenleaf Whittier |

The Pumpkin

 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!

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Written by Kahlil Gibran |

Friendship IXX

 And a youth said, "Speak to us of Friendship.
" Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside.
For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.
When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay.
" And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart; For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.
When you part from your friend, you grieve not; For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.
And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.
And let your best be for your friend.
If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.
For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? Seek him always with hours to live.
For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.
And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

Written by Anonymous |


There’s not a leaf within the bower,—
There’s not a bird upon the tree,—
There’s not a dewdrop on the flower,—
But bears the impress, Lord, of Thee.
[Pg 008]
Thy power the varied leaf designed,
And gave the bird its thrilling tone;
Thy hand the dewdrops’ tints combined,
Till like a diamond’s blaze they shone.
Yes, dewdrops, leaves and buds, and all,—
The smallest, like the greatest things,—
The sea’s vast space, the earth’s wide ball,
Alike proclaim Thee, King of kings!But man alone, to bounteous Heaven,
Thanksgiving’s conscious strains can raise:
To favored man, alone, ’tis given,
To join the angelic choir in praise.

Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox |


 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.

Written by John Greenleaf Whittier |

My Triumph

 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.

Written by Linda Pastan |

Home For Thanksgiving

 The gathering family
throws shadows around us,
it is the late afternoon
Of the family.
There is still enough light to see all the way back, but at the windows that light is wasting away.
Soon we will be nothing but silhouettes: the sons' as harsh as the fathers'.
Soon the daughters will take off their aprons as trees take off their leaves for winter.
Let us eat quickly-- let us fill ourselves up.
the covers of the album are closing behind us.

Written by Sarah Fuller Flower Adams |

Part In Peace: Is Day Before Us?

Part in peace: is day before us?
Praise His Name for life and light;
Are the shadows lengthening o’er us?
Bless His care Who guards the night.
Part in peace: with deep thanksgiving, Rendering, as we homeward tread, Gracious service to the living, Tranquil memory to the dead.
Part in peace: such are the praises God our Maker loveth best; Such the worship that upraises Human hearts to heavenly rest.

Written by George Herbert |

The Thanksgiving

 Oh King of grief! (a title strange, yet true, 
To thee of all kings only due) 
Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee, 
Who in all grief preventest me? 
Shall I weep blood? why thou has wept such store
That all thy body was one door.
Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold? 'Tis but to tell the tale is told.
'My God, my God, why dost thou part from me? ' Was such a grief as cannot be.
Shall I then sing, skipping, thy doleful story, And side with thy triumphant glory? Shall thy strokes be my stroking? thorns, my flower? Thy rod, my posy? cross, my bower? But how then shall I imitate thee, and Copy thy fair, though bloody hand? Surely I will revenge me on thy love, And try who shall victorious prove.
If thou dost give me wealth, I will restore All back unto thee by the poor.
If thou dost give me honour, men shall see, The honour doth belong to thee.
I will not marry; or, if she be mine, She and her children shall be thine.
My bosom friend, if he blaspheme thy name, I will tear thence his love and fame.
One half of me being gone, the rest I give Unto some Chapel, die or live.
As for thy passion - But of that anon, When with the other I have done.
For thy predestination I'll contrive, That three years hence, if I survive, I'll build a spittle, or mend common ways, But mend mine own without delays.
Then I will use the works of thy creation, As if I us'd them but for fashion.
The world and I will quarrel; and the year Shall not perceive, that I am here.
My music shall find thee, and ev'ry string Shall have his attribute to sing; That all together may accord in thee, And prove one God, one harmony.
If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appear; If thou hast giv'n it me, 'tis here.
Nay, I will read thy book, and never move Till I have found therein thy love; Thy art of love, which I'll turn back on thee, O my dear Saviour, Victory! Then for thy passion - I will do for that - Alas, my God, I know not what.

Written by Sharon Olds |

The Pact

 We played dolls in that house where Father staggered with the
Thanksgiving knife, where Mother wept at noon into her one ounce of
cottage cheese, praying for the strength not to
kill herself.
We kneeled over the rubber bodies, gave them baths carefully, scrubbed their little orange hands, wrapped them up tight, said goodnight, never spoke of the woman like a gaping wound weeping on the stairs, the man like a stuck buffalo, baffled, stunned, dragging arrows in his side.
As if we had made a pact of silence and safety, we kneeled and dressed those tiny torsos with their elegant belly-buttons and minuscule holes high on the buttock to pee through and all that darkness in their open mouths, so that I have not been able to forgive you for giving your daughter away, letting her go at eight as if you took Molly Ann or Tiny Tears and held her head under the water in the bathinette until no bubbles rose, or threw her dark rosy body on the fire that burned in that house where you and I barely survived, sister, where we swore to be protectors.

Written by Mac Hammond |


 The man who stands above the bird, his knife
Sharp as a Turkish scimitar, first removes
A thigh and leg, half the support
On which the turkey used to stand.
This Leg and thigh he sets on an extra Plate.
All his weight now on One leg, he lunges for the wing, the wing On the same side of the bird from which He has just removed the leg and thigh.
He frees the wing enough to expose The breast, the wing not severed but Collapsed down to the platter.
One hand Holding the fork, piercing the turkey Anywhere, he now beings to slice the breast, Afflicted by small pains in his chest, A kind of heartburn for which there is no Cure.
He serves the hostess breast, her Own breast rising and falling.
And so on, Till all the guests are served, the turkey Now a wreck, the carver exhausted, a Mere carcass of his former self.
Everyone Says thanks to the turkey carver and begins To eat, thankful for the cold turkey And the Republic for which it stands.

Written by Edgar Albert Guest |


 (For John Bunker)

The roar of the world is in my ears.
Thank God for the roar of the world! Thank God for the mighty tide of fears Against me always hurled! Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife, And the sting of His chastening rod! Thank God for the stress and the pain of life, And Oh, thank God for God!

Written 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.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar |

Merry Autumn

 It's all a farce,—these tales they tell 
 About the breezes sighing, 
And moans astir o'er field and dell, 
 Because the year is dying.
Such principles are most absurd,— I care not who first taught 'em; There's nothing known to beast or bird To make a solemn autumn.
In solemn times, when grief holds sway With countenance distressing, You'll note the more of black and gray Will then be used in dressing.
Now purple tints are all around; The sky is blue and mellow; And e'en the grasses turn the ground From modest green to yellow.
The seed burs all with laughter crack On featherweed and jimson; And leaves that should be dressed in black Are all decked out in crimson.
A butterfly goes winging by; A singing bird comes after; And Nature, all from earth to sky, Is bubbling o'er with laughter.
The ripples wimple on the rills, Like sparkling little lasses; The sunlight runs along the hills, And laughs among the grasses.
The earth is just so full of fun It really can't contain it; And streams of mirth so freely run The heavens seem to rain it.
Don't talk to me of solemn days In autumn's time of splendor, Because the sun shows fewer rays, And these grow slant and slender.
Why, it's the climax of the year,— The highest time of living!— Till naturally its bursting cheer Just melts into thanksgiving.