Thanksgiving Day by Emily Dickinson — Read

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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.

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