 | Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson |  |
BOSTON
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.
| Uncollected poems and prose of Edwin Arlington Robinson | |