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The saddest thing of word or pen, To know the things that might have been.
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Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, From North and South, come 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 lips and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?
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Yet here at least an earnest sense Of human right and weal is shown;...
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Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black.
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For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
the saddest are these, 'It might have been!'
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