“I like this better.” It was really better.
Apples? New Hampshire has them, but unsprayed,
With no suspicion in stem-end or blossom-end
Of vitriol or arsenate of lead,
And so not good for anything but cider.
Her unpruned grapes are flung like lariats
Far up the birches out of reach of man.[5]
A state producing precious metals, stones,
And—writing; none of these except perhaps
The precious literature in quantity