​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.