And Boston's not a place;
Rather I think that Boston is
A sort of state of grace.
The people's lives in Boston
Are flowers blown in glass;
On Commonwealth, on Beacon,
They bow and speak and pass.
No man grows old in Boston,
No lady ever dies;
No youth is ever wicked,
No infant ever cries.
No orthodox Bostonian
Is lonely or dejected,
For everyone in Boston
With everyone's connected.
So intricate the pattern,
The barroom of the Ritz
Becomes a jigsaw puzzle
Each life a piece that fits."
-excerpt from "Boston is Like No Other Place in the World, Only More So," by E.B. White.
No comments:
Post a Comment