  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 |
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