Where the rails converge to the station yard
She stands one moment, breathing hard,
And then, with a snort and a clang of steel,
She settles her strength to the stubborn wheel,
And out, through the tracks that lead astray,
Cautiously, slowly she picks her way,
And gathers her muscle and guards her nerve,
When she swings her nose to the westward curve,
And takes the grade, which slopes to the sky,
With a bound of speed and a conquering cry.
The hazy horizon is all she sees,
Nor cares for the meadows, stirred with bees,
Nor the long, straight stretches of silent land,
Nor the ploughman, that shades his eye with his hand,
Nor the cots and hamlets that know no more
Than a shriek and a flash and a flying roar;
But, bearing her tidings, she trembles and throbs,
And laughs in her throat, and quivers and sobs;
And the fire in her heart is a red core of heat,
That drives like a passion through forest and street,
Till she sees the ships in their harbor at rest,
And sniffs at the trail to the end of her quest.
If I were the driver who handles her reins,
Up hill and down hill and over the plains,
To watch the slow mountains give back in the west,
To know the new reaches that wait every crest,
To hold, when she swerves, with a confident clutch,
And feel how she shivers and springs to the touch,
With the snow on her back and the sun in her face,
And nothing but time as a quarry to chase,
I should grip hard my teeth, and look where she led,
And brace myself stooping, and give her her head,
And urge her, and soothe her, and serve all her need,
And exult in the thunder and thrill of her speed.
Sundown
Hills, wrapped in gray, standing along the west;
Clouds, dimly lighted, gathering slowly;
The star of peace at watch above the crest—
Oh, holy, holy, holy!
We know, O Lord, so little what is best;
Wingless, we move so lowly;
But in thy calm all-knowledge let us rest—
Oh, holy, holy, holy!
At Sea
When the dim, tall sails of the ships were in motion,
Ghostly, and slow, and silent-shod,
We gazed where the dusk fled over the ocean,
A great gray hush, like the shadow of God.
The sky dome cut with its compass in sunder
A circle of sea from the darkened land,—
A circle of tremulous waste and wonder,
O'er which one groped with a childish hand.
The true stars came to their stations in heaven,
The false stars shivered deep down in the sea,
And the white crests went like monsters, driven
By winds that never would let them be,
And there, where the elements mingled and muttered,
We stood, each man with a lone dumb heart,
Full of the vastness that never was uttered
By symbol of words or by echo of art.
L'envoi
God willed, who never needed speech,
"Let all things be:"
And, lo, the starry firmament
And land and sea
And his first thought of life that lives
In you and me.
His circle of eternity
We see in part;
Our spirits are his breath, our hearts
Beat from his heart;
Hence we have played as little gods
And called it art.
Lacking his power, we shared his dream
Of perfect things;
Between the tents of hope and sweet
Rememberings
Have sat in ashes, but our souls
Went forth on wings.
Where life fell short of some desire
In you and me,
Feeling for beauty which our eyes
Could never see,
Behold, from out the void we willed
That it should be,
And sometimes dreamed our lisping songs
Of humanhood
Might voice his silent harmony
Of waste and wood,
And he, beholding his and ours,
Might find it good.