Filled to the roof and loaded tight
With closed-tiered boxes of dynamite;
Enough, if its deadly strength found vent,
To rock the land like a billowed tent,
Sweeping the town from the desert sand
Clean as the palm of an opened hand.
What did he do, the engineer,
Face to face with this mortal fear?
Turn, as the rest, to the desert wide,
Mad with dread, for a place to hide,