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The one great poem of New England is her Sunday.
— New England
The one great poem of New England is her Sunday.
I sing New England, as she lights her fireTo open for the world a purer hour.
And the heavy night hung dark,On the wild New England shore.
I first drew in New England's air, and from her hardy breastSucked in the tyrant-hating milk that will not let me rest.
Puritanism, believing itself quick with the seed of religious liberty, laid, without knowing it, the egg of democracy.
It was in making education not only common to all, but in some sense compulsory on all, that the destiny of the free republics of America was practically settled.
There is a sumptuous variety about the New England weather that compels the stranger's admiration — and regret. The weather is always doing something there; always attending strictly to business; always getting up new designs and trying them on people to see how they will go. But it gets through more business in spring than in any other season. In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of twenty-four hours.
One of the brightest gems in the New England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it.
We Americans have yet to really learn our own antecedents, and sort them, to unify them. They will be found ampler than has been supposed, and in widely different sources. Thus far, impress'd by New England writers and schoolmasters, we tacitly abandon ourselves to the notion that our United States has been fashion'd from the British Islands only, and essentially form a second England only — which is a very great mistake.
From purest wells of English undefiledThe wit and wisdom of New England folk.
