To be New England is to get up early

And make the most of the day. It is to spend

Speech, labor, time, and all essentials dearly;

Rarely to buy, and patiently to mend.

To be New England is to love so fiercely

That the hand trembles, that the deep eyes ache,

Yet speak of love infrequently, and tersely.

It is to suffer thirst a well might slake,

And lift the bucket to the mouth and sip.

It is to juggle thought, catch even the shadow

Of thought, yet hold it in an iron grip.

It is to own one's father's fertile meadow

And strengthen every spring the rock-built wall

To keep one meadow in, and others out,

Yet have three different gateways after all.

Or so it was; and so, with much re-telling,

The legend lives and true beyond all doubt,

Well-learned by outland men and most compelling.

But no one tells the truth about the place.

The hard and ancient virtue blends and blurs;

Few living comprehend its grim old grace,

And least of all the new New Englanders.