The Pumpkin

Oh, 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,

And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain

While he waited to know that his warning was true,

For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.

And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden

Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;

On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,

Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;

Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,

Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,

And the sun of September melts down on his vines.

From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,

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,

What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?

Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!

What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?

Oh, 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,

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better

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!

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,

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 thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky

Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin pie!

~ John Greenleaf Whittier