thanksgiving poem

somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
i fill this cup
among the mountains i wandered
lo! 'tis a gala night
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
two rows of cabbages
she was a beauty in the days
why do
over the river, on the hill
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
there were three in the meadow by the brook
i am dying
i go my way complacently