Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would
Browse below for poems about thanks and gratitude.
|1914||For the Fallen||Laurence Binyon|
|1908||The Thanksgivings||Harriet Maxwell Converse|
|1867||To Shakespeare||Frances Anne Kemble|
|1866||The Triumph of Time||Algernon Charles Swinburne|
|1864||Rabbi Ben Ezra||Robert Browning|