Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869–1935). Collected Poems. 1921.

II. The Children of the Night

12. Boston

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.