Thy whistle weird perchance may be
A sad and sore necessity,
But cannot Law and sense combine
To—well, in short, to draw the line?—
Across the open let it shrill
From moor to moor, from hill to hill,
But in the tunnel's crypt-like gloom,
The Station's cramped reverberant room,
A gentler, graduated blast!
Do let it loose, whilst dashing past,