May also marks the month of our wedding anniversary, which usually brings us back to Boston for a celebration for two. That’s happening again this year, and in order to stoke the excitement, here’s a poem about that beloved city by E.B. White:
BOSTON IS LIKE NO OTHER PLACE
IN THE WORLD ONLY MORE SO
When I am out of funds and sorts
and life is all in snarls,
In Boston, life is smoother far,
Where every boy’s a Harvard man
And every man’s a skier.
There’s something in the Boston scene
So innocent, so tranquil,
It takes and holds my interest
The same as any bank will.
Rather I think that Boston is
A sort of state of grace.
The people’s lives in Boston
On Commonwealth, on Beacon,
They bow and speak and pass.
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,
Becomes a jigsaw puzzle
Each Boston girl is swept along
Down the predestined channel
Alert in Brooksian flannel,
Magnificent in fallen socks,
His hair like stubble weeds,
His elbow patch an earnest of
The fellowship of tweeds.
It wakes celestial stings,
And I can sit in Boston
For Boston’s not a capital,
And Boston’s not a place;
Rather I feel that Boston is
The perfect state of grace.
~ E.B. White
