A THANKSGIVING POEM

  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 were 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.

NUTTING SONG

  The November sun invites me,
  And although the chill wind smites me,
  I will wander to the woodland
    Where the laden trees await;
  And with loud and joyful singing
  I will set the forest ringing,
  As if I were king of Autumn,
    And Dame Nature were my mate,—­

  While the squirrel in his gambols
  Fearless round about me ambles,
  As if he were bent on showing
    In my kingdom he’d a share;
  While my warm blood leaps and dashes,
  And my eye with freedom flashes,
  As my soul drinks deep and deeper
    Of the magic in the air.

  There’s a pleasure found in nutting,
  All life’s cares and griefs outshutting,
  That is fuller far and better
    Than what prouder sports impart. 
  Who could help a carol trilling
  As he sees the baskets filling? 
  Why, the flow of song keeps running
    O’er the high walls of the heart.

  So when I am home returning,
  When the sun is lowly burning,
  I will once more wake the echoes
    With a happy song of praise,—­
  For the golden sunlight blessing,
  And the breezes’ soft caressing,
  And the precious boon of living
    In the sweet November days.

LOVE’S PICTURES

  Like the blush upon the rose
    When the wooing south wind speaks,
  Kissing soft its petals,
    Are thy cheeks.