You get glimpses through the timber of the lights a-sliding by,
You can see the red reflection palpitating in the sky;
You can hear the easy puffing as she swings into her stride,
And you feel a sort of pigmy in a world that’s cold and wide,
With the wise old stars above you, making home,
While you’ve got a notion someone is a-sobbing by your side,
Making home.
Then the past shows up before you every ghost you thought had fled,
Everything you did unkindly, every peevish word you said;
And the poor old woman, battling with the tears that blind and ache,