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 train
Throb, 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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