THANKSGIVING 



distinctness and flashes past, with every 

 sense alert. Then the hound goes by, 

 and footstep, voice, and echo sink into 

 silence. For silence it is, though the 

 silver tinkle of the brook is in it, and the 

 stir of the last leaf shivering forsaken on 

 its bough. 



In such quietude one may hold heart- 

 felt thanksgiving, feasting full upon a 

 crust and a draught from the icy rivulet, 

 and leave rich viands and costly wines 

 for the thankless surfeiting of poorer 

 men. 



