NEW ENGLAND.
New England—Daughter of the Sun—
A laurel on your brow,
The thrill of springtime in your heart,
Yea, we are lovers now,
And we shall wind a lover’s horn
High on the hills of space,
To echo far beyond the stars;
I shall behold your face,
With laughing eyes, when time is not;
Your lifting vistas then,
As now, will haunt and wake in me
A chording great amen.