The Pumpkin
John Greenleaf Whittier, American Poet, 1807 - 1892
O, greenly and fair in the lands of the
sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich
melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the
cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and
blossoms all gold,
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet
once grew,
While he waited to know that his
warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and
listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red
fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil, the dark
Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled
wine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to
behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad
spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home
in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee
looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and
yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on
his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East
and from West,
From North and from South come the
pilgrim and guest,
When the gray-haired New-Englander sees
round his board
The old broken links of affection
restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his
mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the
girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip and what
brightens the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich
pumpkin-pie?
O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days
recalling;
When wood-grapes were purpling and
brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its
skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a
candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap,
with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern
the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who
travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats
for her team!
hen thanks for thy present! -- none
sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a
platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry
more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its
baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too
full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may
never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be
lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a
pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last
sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own
pumpkin-pie!
