Yes, thou must go; the wild free breeze, the autumn sun and sky,
Thy terminus—to all of these my punctual one must fly.
The “ticket-man” will go his rounds, and vainly seek my “tip,”
And vainly will he ply his punch my ticket then to clip.
Only in sleep shall I behold that red eye gleaming bright,
Only in sleep shall hear again that whistle shrill at night;
And when I rouse my dreaming brain to wonder at thy speed,
Then must I starting wake, to feel—I’m sold, my train, indeed.
Ah now, indeed, uncared by me, some fireman’s hand may “stoke,”
Till steam wreaths mix like driven snow among the blackening smoke,