Four-Hundredth Fall

by The Cowl Editor on October 24, 2019


by Sean Tobin ’20

One of mine, but given:
Today when I arise
And see slow-rolling skies
Illuminate what lies
This bleak side of heaven,

Just one thought do I save—
How bless’d this northern shore;
The same which fathers fore,
Sea-sick, God-starved, back-sore,
Saw and knew they must have;

We know the sounds she made,
To hear minute man’s shout,
The Sacred Harp throughout,
Oak leaves falling round ’bout,
Over and over played;

Is she not the same still?
Green mountains surrounding,
Waves on white rock pounding,
Life through valleys sounding—
New England steals her fill, and so much more.