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Emily Dickinson · Poems

Poem 335 of 446 · Third Series: Life

Thanksgiving Day

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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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