Thanksgiving, 1958


For this earth gently rolling

fair, the sun-burned hills and

hollows there: from Trinidad

to Bougainville, for mankind searching

still for you; the seas, the trees,

the rivers all those greatnesses

where we are small; and quiet in

a little room, the memory

extending where no mind has

been; a cracked cup of cold

water, bread, the man, the child;

for the first small

snow; for failure; danger and

despairing tears; for fear, for

hate, for pain, for breath—for years.