Midnight On The Great Western

 In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy, 
And the roof-lamp's oily flame 
Played down on his listless form and face, 
Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going, 
Or whence he came.
 

In the band of his hat the journeying boy 
Had a ticket stuck; and a string 
Around his neck bore the key of his box, 
That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beams 
Like a living thing.
 

What past can be yours, O journeying boy 
Towards a world uknown, 
Who calmly, as if incurious quite 
On all at stake, can undertake 
This plunge alone? 

Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy, 
Our rude realms far above, 
Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete 
This region of sin that you find you in, 
But are not of?

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