Thanksgiving Day. By Emily Dickinson

    One day is there of the series
    Termed Thanksgiving day,
    Celebrated part at table,
    Part in memory.

    Neither patriarch nor pussy,
    I dissect the play;
    Seems it, to my hooded thinking,
    Reflex holiday.

    Had there been no sharp subtraction
    From the early sum,
    Not an acre or a caption
    Where was once a room,

    Not a mention, whose small pebble
    Wrinkled any bay, —
    Unto such, were such assembly,
    ‘T were Thanksgiving day.