By Emily Dickinson
Thanksgiving Day

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.