GHOSTS
They call you cold New England,
But underneath your snow
Is blood as red as roses
That in your gardens blow.
The God that lights your forests
With torch of cardinal flower,
Forbids that ever the Puritan
Escape his crimson hour.
The flame that skims brown furrows—
The scarlet tanager’s breast,
Is sign to preacher and ploughman
Of dreams that haunt their rest.
When witch and warlock perished
By fagot, scaffold and tree,
Their tortures slew their bodies
But set their spirits free!
In freedom gliding, gloating,
Through the haunts their children claim
The swollen ghosts of the wicked
Grow fat on new-wrought shame.
The old, sweet evil lingers,
The demon of uncontrol,
And madness creeps and crouches
In every haggard soul.
And he who held moon revels
In Salem forests deep,
Well loves his hypocrite servants
Nor seeks to spoil their sleep.
They call you cold New England—
But surely even your snow
Is drift not of ice but of ashes,
To guard the flames below!
Smart Set Marguerite Mooers Marshall