Query any poem you want.

This song that I sing--

It is not of a spring,

Nor yet of a silvery stream--

But of a vision bright

Which came last night

In the garb of a blissful dream--

When I thought, as I lay,

It was Thanksgiving Day,

And I was invited to dine

Where a table stood

On which everything good

Spread a feast that was almost divine!

  

Where the savors arose,

Right under my nose,

From turkey--and pumpkin pies;

And from jolly roast pig

Were slices as big

As some of the campaign lies!

And celery so white

'Twas a thing of delight

To bite the crisp stalks in two.

And the cranberry sauce--

Oh, I tell you 'twas boss--

And flanked by an oyster stew!

  

Where the bread and the cake--

The best they can bake--

Were cut into slices heroic.

And the amber ice cream

Melted into my dream

Like love to the heart of a 'poet';

And they heaped up my plate,

And I sat there and ate

Till I awoke with a yell,

And a shiver and shake

And a pain and an ache

That rudely my dream did dispel!

  

But dreams, as you know,

By contraries go,

And thus I fear if it will be

With the one of delight

That came last night

When I feasted so heartily;

And Thanksgiving Day

In the usual way

Will come to me, don't you see,

And the dinner I had

And the ache that was bad

Prove a----barren "idealty"!