 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
237
THE RAILWAY
Upon the iron highway, wreathed in smoke,
Or East or West the clanking engine reels,
The weary dust spins onward at the stroke
Of half-a-hundred wheels.
Or East or West the clanking engine reels,
The weary dust spins onward at the stroke
Of half-a-hundred wheels.
It comes, the breathless driver staring straight
Through misty eye-holes, with the sudden gleam
Of burnished dome, and cranks of ponderous weight,
And clouds of hissing steam.
Through misty eye-holes, with the sudden gleam
Of burnished dome, and cranks of ponderous weight,
And clouds of hissing steam.
Old countrymen, that trudge from new-ploughed lands,
And on high bridges stay their weary feet,
See faces flashed beneath them, waving hands
That may not stay to greet.
And on high bridges stay their weary feet,
See faces flashed beneath them, waving hands
That may not stay to greet.
Or slow, with hollow blast and wealthy din,
By wide-armed signals creeps the laden train,
High vans with shuddering jolt, and rattling pin,
And clink of clattering chain.
By wide-armed signals creeps the laden train,
High vans with shuddering jolt, and rattling pin,
And clink of clattering chain.
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Wide-eyed, affrighted cattle, meek and still:
And murky coal for city folk to burn,
And dusty blocks hewed from some western hill,
And wreathed in twisted fern.
And murky coal for city folk to burn,
And dusty blocks hewed from some western hill,
And wreathed in twisted fern.
But best of all, when, in the sullen night,
Along the dim embankment, hung in air,
Shoots the red streamer, linked with cheerful light;
The wide-flung furnace-glare
Along the dim embankment, hung in air,
Shoots the red streamer, linked with cheerful light;
The wide-flung furnace-glare
Lights the dim hedges and the rolling steam:—
Then passes, and in narrowing distance dies,
Tracked by the watchful lanterns' lessening gleam,
Two red resentful eyes.
Then passes, and in narrowing distance dies,
Tracked by the watchful lanterns' lessening gleam,
Two red resentful eyes.
And some are borne to dim and alien shores,
And some return to merriment and home:—
These, while the train through slumbering homestead roars
Thrill with delight:—and some
And some return to merriment and home:—
These, while the train through slumbering homestead roars
Thrill with delight:—and some
Fly from the horror that their hands have wrought,
And shudder, as the shivering engine reels;
They fly, but falter: one red-throated thought
Pants ever at their heels.
And shudder, as the shivering engine reels;
They fly, but falter: one red-throated thought
Pants ever at their heels.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |