Trees and Other Poems #395955

The Twelve-Forty-Five

     (For Edward J. Wheeler)
     Within the Jersey City shed
     The engine coughs and shakes its head,
     The smoke, a plume of red and white,
     Waves madly in the face of night.
     And now the grave incurious stars
     Gleam on the groaning hurrying cars.
     Against the kind and awful reign
     Of darkness, this our angry train,
     A noisy little rebel, pouts
     Its brief defiance, flames and shouts —
     And passes on, and leaves no trace.
     For darkness holds its ancient place,
     Serene and absolute, the king
     Unchanged, of every living thing.
     The houses lie obscure and still
     In Rutherford and Carlton Hill.
     Our lamps intensify the dark
     Of slumbering Passaic Park.
     And quiet holds the weary feet
     That daily tramp through Prospect Street.
     What though we clang and clank and roar
     Through all Passaic's streets?  No door
     Will open, not an eye will see
     Who this loud vagabond may be.
     Upon my crimson cushioned seat,
     In manufactured light and heat,
     I feel unnatural and mean.
     Outside the towns are cool and clean;
     Curtained awhile from sound and sight
     They take God's gracious gift of night.
     The stars are watchful over them.