T. S. Eliot

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 Rochefoucauld,

If the street were Time and he at the end of the street,

And I say, “Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript.”