The Night Journey
Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine,Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes
Glares the imperious mystery of the way.Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed trainThrob, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway,Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again. . . .
As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move
Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,
Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal,Out of the fire, out of the little room. . . .-- There is an end appointed, O my soul!Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom
Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers.Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly,Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die.
And lips and laughter are forgotten things.Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on,The strength and splendour of our purpose swings.The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.
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