by Katie I. Philbrick, written 1918
The year has sped on wingéd feet, each hour,
Each moment fleeter than the one before.
It seems but yesterday we saw the buds
Of spring unfolding into radiant bloom;
And while we stood with eager hands outstretched
To gather them, the fruits of autumn lay
In rich abundance at our feet. The year
Draws toward its close, almost before our sense
Had grasped the thought that summer days had flown.
And so our children grow – the tiny babe
So soon becomes the youth, we have no time
To listen to its prattle or to feel
The touch of baby arms about our neck:
And while we look in wonder at the youth,
The scene is changed again and we behold
A mated pair who leaving the home nest
Seem to take youth away and leave us age.
But these are thoughts as fleeting as the year —
Each season in its time is good, and so
Each change in life, if we but take it thus.
To-day, while gathered here again to mark
Thanksgiving Day, we feel that God is good:
The spring, the summer, autumn, — all are good,
And even winter brings us cheerful thought
And hopes of other and of brighter days.
Thus in our lives, — through childhood, youth, and age
Each passing stage of time is good, though short;
We greet each friend with kindly word and touch
Of hand; we meet and part again, perhaps for aye.
So let us all be glad, and as we eat
And drink and talk of days gone by
And days to come, let us give thanks
And say, “Our God is good.”
[typewritten - mimeographed?]
Katie I. Philbrick was this blogger’s great-grandmother. I imagine her reading this at a family Thanksgiving gathering in Schodack Center, New York, to children and grandchildren, including my own mother who would have been six years old that year. I printed out a copy and read it at another family gathering some 90 years later.