AT THANKSGIVING 
When leaves turn gray and somber brown, 
And drift o’er field and wayside down, 
Where, blackened from the frost-rimed sod, 
Rise asters pale and goldenrod; 
When days wax short and nights grow long, 
And dawning brings no matin-song— 
At Thanksgiving. 
When fragrant heaps the orchard fill, 
And wild-grapes sweeten on the hill; 
When swaying in the chilling breeze 
Hang empty nests in leafless trees; 
And through the miracle of snow, 
In countless homes the hearthfires glow— 
At Thanksgiving. 
—Evelyn Melville Quereau. 
