Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems

Part One: Life 137. One day is there of the series


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.