Shut close the barn, and put the yokes away;
Ho! red-capped thresher, hang your shining
Ho! herdsman, leave the cattle in the vale.
Shepherds, your flocks shall on the mountain stray,
And share with you the general holiday.
The girl who skims the bowl, and froths the pail,
Whose harvest brings a daily festival,—
The tinkling bell invites her, too, to pray.
All in the flower-decked church may kneel and ask
Who gave the seed, Whence came the corn’s increase?
And each may consecrate the ended task
By resting there a little while in peace.
While bowed with work old men will wondering say,
Shall we be here the next Thanksgiving day?

(Sonnets at the English Lakes, p. 32)