New England Thanksgiving

Before the fire a rough settee,
A father musing there,
A kitten blinking on his knee,
And through the cozy air
The downward perfume sweetly sighing
Of seeds upon the rafters drying;
While yonder by the candle sits
A white-capped dame who softly knits.
He thinks the needles click in flying:
“My heart is glad, is glad.
My heart, my heart is glad.”
He cons the lavish summer o’er,—
The famine sped, the brimming chest,
The welcome flails upon the floor,
The harvest wain with burden blest.
He sees his maiden daughter spinning,
(In ‘kerchief dainty) fair and winning,
And music of the spinning-wheel
Goes murmuring on in tread and reel,
Forever ending, e’er beginning:
“My heart is glad, is glad.
My heart, my heart, is glad.”