That they could find in all Boston town,
And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour,
Till the sun or the poets had both gone down.
For Spring poets must write though the editors rage,
The artistic spirit must thus be engaged—
Though the editors all were groaning.
Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand,
Just after the first spring sun went down,
And the Press sat down to a banquet grand,
In honour of poets no more in the town.