Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership



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.

Search for the best famous Thanksgiving poems, articles about Thanksgiving poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Thanksgiving poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

by The Bible | |

Psalm 95:1-3; 6-8

O come let us worship and bow down,
Let us kneel before the Lord our maker
Offering the praise He deserves
For He is our God, our creator
We are the people of His pasture
And we are the sheep of His hand
So we shall offer with thanksgiving
Praises to the great "I Am"
Today if you would hear His voice,
Don't let your hearts grow hard
As they had done so long ago
In the wilderness at Meribah
So come let us sing to the Lord,
Make a joyful noise to our rock
With songs of praise and worship
To the King above all 'gods'.

Scripture Poem © Copyright Of M.
S.
Lowndes


by The Bible | |

Psalm 119:166-171

I eagerly hope and wait
For your salvation, O Lord
All your testimonies have I kept,
Loving and obeying your law
All my ways are before you
And your precepts, I have observed
Hear my mournful cry, O Lord
Give understanding by your word
For your word shall deliver me
And my lips pour forth your praise
With thanksgiving and renewed trust
For you instruct me in your ways.

Scripture Poem © Copyright Of M.
S.
Lowndes


by Anonymous | |

THANKSGIVING.

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.


More great poems below...

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.


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.


by Mark Van Doren | |

Farewell and Thanksgiving

 Whatever I have left unsaid
When I am dead
O'muse forgive me.
You were always there, like light, like air.
Those great good things of which the least bird sings, So why not I? Yet thank you even then, Sweet muse, Amen.


by Edgar Albert Guest | |

Thanksgiving

 (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!


by Edgar Albert Guest | |

Thanksgiving

 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.


by Robert William Service | |

Weary

 Some praise the Lord for Light,
 The living spark;
I thank God for the Night
 The healing dark.
When wearily I lie, With aching sight, With what thanksgiving I Turn out the light! When to night's drowsy deep Serene I sink, How glad am I to sleep, To cease to think! From care and fret set free, In sweet respite, With joy I peacefully Turn out the light.
Lie down thou weary one, And sink to rest; Nay, grieve not for the sun, The dark is best.
So greet with grateful breath Eternal Night, When soft the hand of Death Turns out the light.


by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

He Giveth His Beloved Sleep

 The long day passes with its load of sorrow: 
In slumber deep 
I lay me down to rest until tomorrow -- 
Thank God for sleep.
Thank God for all respite from weary toiling, From cares that creep Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling God's kindly sleep.
We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later, We strive to reap, And build our barns, and hope to build them greater Before we sleep.
We toil and strain and strive with one another In hopes to heap Some greater share of profit than our brother Before we sleep.
What will it profit that with tears or laughter Our watch we keep? Beyond it all there lies the Great Hereafter! Thank God for sleep! For, at the last, beseeching Christ to save us We turn with deep Heartfelt thanksgiving unto God, who gave us The Gift of Sleep.


by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

By the Grey Gulf-water

 Far to the Northward there lies a land, 
A wonderful land that the winds blow over, 
And none may fathom or understand 
The charm it holds for the restless rover; 
A great grey chaos -- a land half made, 
Where endless space is and no life stirreth; 
There the soul of a man will recoil afraid 
From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth.
But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves Her dole of death and her share of slaughter; Many indeed are the nameless graves Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water.
Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, Drifting along with a languid motion, Lapping the reed-beds on either side, Wending their way to the North Ocean.
Grey are the plains where the emus pass Silent and slow, with their dead demeanour; Over the dead man's graves the grass Maybe is waving a trifle greener.
Down in the world where men toil and spin Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; Only the dead men her smiles can win In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water.
For the strength of man is an insect's strength In the face of that mighty plain and river, And the life of a man is a moment's length To the life of the stream that will run for ever.
And so it comes that they take no part In small world worries; each hardy rover Rides like a paladin, light of heart, With the plains around and the blue sky over.
And up in the heavens the brown lark sings The songs the strange wild land has taught her; Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings -- And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Thanksgiving

 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.


by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

Dedication To Joseph Mazzini

 Take, since you bade it should bear,
These, of the seed of your sowing,
Blossom or berry or weed.
Sweet though they be not, or fair, That the dew of your word kept growing, Sweet at least was the seed.
Men bring you love-offerings of tears, And sorrow the kiss that assuages, And slaves the hate-offering of wrongs, And time the thanksgiving of years, And years the thanksgiving of ages; I bring you my handful of songs.
If a perfume be left, if a bloom, Let it live till Italia be risen, To be strewn in the dust of her car When her voice shall awake from the tomb England, and France from her prison, Sisters, a star by a star.
I bring you the sword of a song, The sword of my spirit's desire, Feeble; but laid at your feet, That which was weak shall be strong, That which was cold shall take fire, That which was bitter be sweet.
It was wrought not with hands to smite, Nor hewn after swordsmiths' fashion, Nor tempered on anvil of steel; But with visions and dreams of the night, But with hope, and the patience of passion, And the signet of love for a seal.
Be it witness, till one more strong, Till a loftier lyre, till a rarer Lute praise her better than I, Be it witness before you, my song, That I knew her, the world's banner-bearer, Who shall cry the republican cry.
Yea, even she as at first, Yea, she alone and none other, Shall cast down, shall build up, shall bring home; Slake earth's hunger and thirst, Lighten, and lead as a mother; First name of the world's names, Rome.


by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

Concord

 Reconciled by death's mild hand, that giving
Peace gives wisdom, not more strong than mild,
Love beholds them, each without misgiving
Reconciled.
Each on earth alike of earth reviled, Hated, feared, derided, and forgiving, Each alike had heaven at heart, and smiled.
Both bright names, clothed round with man's thanksgiving, Shine, twin stars above the storm-drifts piled, Dead and deathless, whom we saw not living Reconciled.


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.


by Joyce Kilmer | |

Apology

 (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.


by Siegfried Sassoon | |

Stretcher Case

 He woke; the clank and racket of the train 
Kept time with angry throbbings in his brain.
Then for a while he lapsed and drowsed again.
At last he lifted his bewildered eyes And blinked, and rolled them sidelong; hills and skies, Heavily wooded, hot with August haze, And, slipping backward, golden for his gaze, Acres of harvest.
Feebly now he drags Exhausted ego back from glooms and quags And blasting tumult, terror, hurtling glare, To calm and brightness, havens of sweet air.
He sighed, confused; then drew a cautious breath; This level journeying was no ride through death.
‘If I were dead,’ he mused, ‘there’d be no thinking— Only some plunging underworld of sinking, And hueless, shifting welter where I’d drown.
’ Then he remembered that his name was Brown.
But was he back in Blighty? Slow he turned, Till in his heart thanksgiving leapt and burned.
There shone the blue serene, the prosperous land, Trees, cows and hedges; skipping these, he scanned Large, friendly names, that change not with the year, Lung Tonic, Mustard, Liver Pills and Beer.


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.


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.


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.


by Robert Graves | |

A Boy in Church

 “Gabble-gabble,… brethren,… gabble-gabble!” 
My window frames forest and heather.
I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whether The text is praise or exhortation, Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation.
Outside it blows wetter and wetter, The tossing trees never stay still.
I shift my elbows to catch better The full round sweep of heathered hill.
The tortured copse bends to and fro In silence like a shadow-show.
The parson’s voice runs like a river Over smooth rocks.
I like this church: The pews are staid, they never shiver, They never bend or sway or lurch.
“Prayer,” says the kind voice, “is a chain That draws down Grace from Heaven again.
” I add the hymns up, over and over, Until there’s not the least mistake.
Seven-seventy-one.
(Look! there’s a plover! It’s gone!) Who’s that Saint by the lake? The red light from his mantle passes Across the broad memorial brasses.
It’s pleasant here for dreams and thinking, Lolling and letting reason nod, With ugly serious people linking Sad prayers to a forgiving God….
But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying With furious zeal like madmen praying.


by Mac Hammond | |

Thanksgiving

 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.


by Richard Jones | |

Letter Of Recommendation From My Father To My Future Wife

 During the war, I was in China.
Every night we blew the world to hell.
The sky was purple and yellow like his favorite shirt.
I was in India once on the Ganges in a tourist boat.
There were soldiers, some women with parasols.
A dead body floated by going in the opposite direction.
My son likes this story and requests it each year at Thanksgiving.
When he was twelve, there was an accident.
He almost went blind.
For three weeks he lay in the hospital, his eyes bandaged.
He did not like visitors, but if they came he'd silently hold their hand as they talked.
Small attentions are all he requires.
Tell him you never saw anyone so adept at parallel parking.
Still, your life will not be easy.
Just look in the drawer where he keeps his socks.
Nothing matches.
And what's the turtle shell doing there, or the map of the moon, or the surgeon's plastic model of a take-apart heart? You must understand -- he doesn't see the world clearly.
Once he screamed, "The woods are on fire!" when it was only a blue cloud of insects lifting from the trees.
But he's a good boy.
He likes to kiss and be kissed.
I remember mornings he would wake me, stroking my whiskers and kissing my hand.
He'll tell you -- and it's true -- he prefers the green of your eyes to all the green life of heaven and earth.


by Aleister Crowley | |

Long Odds

 How many million galaxies there are
Who knows? and each has countless stars in it,
And each rolls through eternities afar
Beneath the threshold of the Infinite.
How is it that will all that space to roam I should have found this mote that spins and leaps In what unutterable sunlight, foam Of what unfathomable starry deeps Who knows!? And how this thousand million souls And half a thousand million souls of earth That swarm, all bound for unimagined goals, All pioneers of death enrolled at birth, How were they swept away before my sight, That I might stand upon the single prick Of infinite space and time as infinite, Who knows? Yet here I stand, climacteric, Having found you.
Was it by fall of chance? Then what a stake against what odds I have won! Was it determined in God's ordinance? Then wondrous love and pity for His son! Or was it part of an eternal law? Then how ineffably beneficent! Each thought excites an ecstasy of awe, A rapture rending the mind's firmament.
Infinity -yet you and I have met.
Eternity -yet hand in hand we run.
All odds that I should lose you or forget, But, soul and spirit and body, we are one.
Is this the child of Chance, or Law, or Will? Is None or All or One to thank for this? It will not matter if thanksgiving fill The endless empyrean with a kiss.


by Laurence Binyon | |

For the Fallen

 With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, 
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted; They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night; As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain.