Chapter 54

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.

LV.

CHILDISH GRIEFS.

Softened by Time's consummate plush, How sleek the woe appears That threatened childhood's citadel And undermined the years!

Bisected now by bleaker griefs, We envy the despair That devastated childhood's realm, So easy to repair.

II. LOVE.

I.

CONSECRATION.

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.

II.

LOVE'S HUMILITY.

My worthiness is all my doubt, His merit all my fear, Contrasting which, my qualities Do lowlier appear;

Lest I should insufficient prove For his beloved need, The chiefest apprehension Within my loving creed.

So I, the undivine abode Of his elect content, Conform my soul as 't were a church Unto her sacrament.

III.

LOVE.

Love is anterior to life, Posterior to death, Initial of creation, and The exponent of breath.