There were no stripes of crimson, no constellations bold;
It was a simpler pattern their aspirations told.
Our woodsbred northern women a simpler flag disclose;
Upon the snowy linen like their New England snows,
By women’s hands embroidered, a single pine-tree rose.
Our woodsbred northern women knew naught of warlike things,
The bloody skill of soldiers, the heavy pomp of kings;
They knew no better music than that the pine-tree sings.
Our woodsbred northern women (There were no weaklings there)
Wove not a blood-red banner for sire and son to bear—