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 | Poems by Frederick Goddard Tuckerman |  |
209
[XI. Still pressing through these weeping solitudes]
Still pressing through these weeping solitudes,Perchance I snatch a beam of comfort bright,—
And pause, to fix the gleam, or lose it quite,
That darkens as I move, or but intrudes
To baffle and forelay: as sometimes here,
When late at night the wearied engineer
Driving his engine up through Whately woods,
Sees on the track a glimmering lantern-light,
And checks his crashing speed,—with hasty hand
Reversing and retarding. But, again!
Look where it burns, a furlong on before!—
The witchlight of the reedy river-shore,
The pilot of the forest and the fen,
Not to be left, but with the waste woodland.
| Poems by Frederick Goddard Tuckerman | |