A
NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING
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IT is
the mellow season
When gold enchantment lies
On stream and road and woodland,
To gladden soul’s surmise.
The little old grey homesteads
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Are
quiet as can be,
Among their stone-fenced orchards
And meadows by the sea.
Here lived the men who gave us
The purpose that holds fast,
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The
dream that nerves endeavor,
The glory that shall last.
Here strong as pines in winter
And free as ripening corn,
Our faith in fair ideals—
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| Our
fathers’ faith—was born.
Here shone through simple living,
With pride in word and deed,
And consciences of granite,
The old New England breed.
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With
souls assayed by hardship,
Illumined, self-possessed,
Strongly they lived, and left us
Their passion for the best.
On trails that cut the sunset,
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Above
the last divide,
The vision has not vanished,
The whisper has not died.
From Shasta to Katahdin,
Blue Hill to Smoky Ridge,
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Still
stand the just convictions
That stood at Concord Bridge.
Beneath our gilded revel,
Behind our ardent boast,
Above our young impatience
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To value
least and most,
Sure as the swinging compass
To serve at touch of need,
Square to the world’s four corners,
Abides their fearless creed.
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Still fired with wonder-working,
Intolerant of peers,
Impetuous and sanguine
After the hundred years,
In likeness to our fathers,
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Beyond
the safe-marked scope
Of reason and decorum,
We jest and dare and hope.
Thank we the Blood that bred us,
Clear fibre and clean strain—
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The
Truth which straightly sighted
Lets no one swerve again.
And may almighty Goodness
Give us the will to be
As sweet as upland pastures,
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| And
strong as wind at sea. |
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