A Thanksgiving Sonnet
by Clara Ophelia Bland
The artist, Nature, hath his brushes dipped
In various shades of scarlet and of gold
And touched the leaves of Autumn, which unfold
In vistas fair 'ere yet the frost hath nipped
Their splendor. And my heart gives thanks and sings,
For this yearly glimpse of beauty; for the power
Which evokes the seasons, calleth forth the flower,
And hath the mastery of all transitory things.
And even as the blast of winter comes and sweeps
Away the forest's leaves of scarlet hue,
E'en so the rush of penitence which weeps,
Will scatter all the sins of scarlet too.
This thought the heart in thankfulness e'er keeps,
If the sins of life be many, or by grace, be few.