My northern pines are good enough for me, But there's a town my memory uprears -- A town that always like a friend appears, And always in the sunrise by the sea. And over it, somehow, there seems to be A downward flash of something new and fierce, That ever strives to clear, but never clears The dimness of a charmed antiquity. I know my Boston is a counterfeit, -- A frameless imitation, all bereft Of living nearness, noise, and common speech; But I am glad for every glimpse of it, -- And there it is, plain as a name that's left In letters by warm hands I cannot reach. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE: 3. BY HER AUNT'S GRAVE by THOMAS HARDY THE LAST CHRYSANTHEMUM by THOMAS HARDY ECHOES: 6 by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN by CAROLINA OLIPHANT NAIRNE A WOMAN'S QUESTION by ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER A GOOD PLAY by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE KNIGHTS: THE POET AND HIS RIVALS by ARISTOPHANES |