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Poems by Emily Dickinson, Third Series

LIV.

Reading edition

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.

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