Sweet Boston, let not thy soul far wander:

She seeks to perch on painted hills

Surveying her shell, and thus, to ponder

What’s reaped and lost in listless frills.

Let not her fly on a Sunday noon

In haste to flowered mountain trysts,

Or a Tuesday morn, most opportune

To taste salubrious greensward mist.

Impede her, beloved, should she fast abscond

To the tender swells of Palousean leas,

For who’d swap shimm’ring, chic beau monde

For starlit lakes ’neath apple trees?

Her mind’s not fit to adjudicate

What’s cherished and what’s right despised:

Thine second, third, and first estates

Were drawn by men, and men are wise.

So Boston, let not thy restless soul

Far wander, for she seeks to perch

On painted hills of Gaean gold.

Hers must remain a fruitless search!

☉