Pours the belated Express, roars at the night, and draws clear,
Redly obscured or displayed by her fire-door’s opening and shutting—
Symbol of strength under stress—what does her small engineer?
Clamour and darkness encircle his way. Do they deafen or blind him?
No!—nor the pace he must keep. He, being used to these things,
Placidly follows his work, which is laying his mileage behind him,
While his passengers trustfully sleep, and he, as he handles her, sings!
When, with the gale at her heel, the barque lies down and recovers—
Rolling through forty degrees, combing the stars with her tops,
What says the man at the wheel, holding her straight as she hovers