The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.

When evening quickens faintly in the street,
Wakening the appetites of life in some
And to others bringing the Boston Evening
Transcript,
I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to
La Rochefoucauld,¹
If the street were time and he at the end of the
street,
And I say, ‘Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston
Evening Transcript.’