THE South-land boasts its teeming cane, <br />The prairied West its heavy grain, <br />And sunset's radiant gates unfold <br />On rising marts and sands of gold! <br />Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State <br />Is scant of soil, of limits strait; <br />Her yellow sands are sands alone, <br />Her only mines are ice and stone! <br />From Autumn frost to April rain, <br />Too long her winter woods complain; <br />Fom budding flower to falling leaf, <br />Her summer time is all too brief. <br />Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands, <br />And wintry hills, the school-house stands, <br />And what her rugged soil denies, <br />The harvest of the mind supplies. <br />The riches of the Commonwealth <br />Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health; <br />And more to her than gold or grain, <br />The cunning hand and cultured brain. <br />For well she keeps her ancient stock, <br />The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock; <br />And still maintains, with milder laws, <br />And clearer light, the Good Old Cause! <br />Nor heeds the skeptic's puny hands, <br />While near her school the church-spire stands; <br />Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, <br />While near her church-spire stands the school.<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-state/
