Great guns were gleaming there—living things seeming there—
Cloaked in their tar cloths, upnosed to the night:
Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe,
Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight.
Lamplight all drearily, blinking and blearily
Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss,
While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to them
Not to court peril that honour could miss.
Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded those eyes of ours,
When at last moved away under the arch
All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them
Treading back slowly the track of their march.
Someone said ‘Nevermore will they come! Evermore
Are they now lost to us!’ Oh, it was wrong!
Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways—
Bear them through safely—in brief time or long.
Yet—voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us,
Hint, in the night-time, when life-beats are low,
Other and graver things.... Hold we to braver things—
Wait we—in trust—what Time’s fullness shall show.
Thomas Hardy.