Traditionally, Thanksgiving is celebrated as the harvest festival in United States and Canada. The festival falls on the fourth Thursday of the month of November. On this day, people thank the Almighty for the bountiful harvest and pray for the eternal shower of blessings from the Lord. Along with the Thanksgiving feast, there are some traditional poems that form a part and parcel of the festival. These poems are recited during the festival, either at the beginning or the end of the dinner. The poems express the meaning of the festival in a more poignant manner. They also help set the mood and spirit of the festival, being the delicate ways of expressing one’s gratitude towards the Almighty. Here, we bring you some traditional Thanksgiving poems that you can recite during the festival.
Traditional Harvest Season Thanksgiving Poems
The year has turned its circle,
The seasons come and go.
The harvest is all gathered in
And chilly north winds blow.
Orchards have shared their treasures,
The fields, their yellow grain.
So open wide the doorway-
Thanksgiving comes again!
Father, We Thank Thee
Father, we thank Thee for the night,
And for the pleasant morning light,
For rest and food and loving care,
And all that makes the world so fair.
Help us to do the things we should,
To be to others kind and good,
In all we do, in all we say,
To grow more loving every day.
For the hay and the corn and the wheat that is reaped,
For the labor well done, and the barns that are heaped,
For the sun and the dew and the sweet honeycomb,
For the rose and the song and the harvest brought home --
For the trade and the skill and the wealth in our land,
For the cunning and strength of the workingman's hand,
For the good that our artists and poets have taught,
For the friendship that hope and affection have brought --
For the homes that with purest affection are blest,
For the season of plenty and well-deserved rest,
For our country extending from sea unto sea;
The land that is known as the "Land of the Free" --
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,
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.
(Author Emily Dickinson)