Classic Poem

The moon goes down; the fire burns low;
The ancient clock seems ticking slow,
And feebly, with its drowsy powers,
Is hammering out the morning hours.
The grandsire, with complacent look,
Bids some one hand the blessed Book.
Its precious page aloud he reads,
Then, kneeling, in devotion leads;
Gives thanks that in communion sweet
They've been permitted thus to meet;
And in befitting language prays,
That when on earth shall end their days,
To them may their T HANKSGIVING prove
Eternal, in the realms above.