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.      On Clifton as on Bethlehem      The angels, leaning down the sky,      Shed peace and gentle dreams.    And I --      I ride, I blasphemously ride      Through all the silent countryside.      The engine's shriek, the headlight's glare,      Pollute the still nocturnal air.      The cottages of Lake View sigh      And sleeping, frown as we pass by.      Why, even strident Paterson      Rests quietly as any nun.      Her foolish warring children keep      The grateful armistice of sleep.      For what tremendous errand's sake      Are we so blatantly awake?      What precious secret is our freight?      What king must be abroad so late?      Perhaps Death roams the hills to-night      And we rush forth to give him fight.      Or else, perhaps, we speed his way      To some remote unthinking prey.      Perhaps a woman writhes in pain      And listens -- listens for the train!      The train, that like an angel sings,      The train, with healing on its wings.      Now "Hawthorne!" the conductor cries.      My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes.      He hurries yawning through the car      And steps out where the houses are.      This is the reason of our quest!      Not wantonly we break the rest      Of town and village, nor do we      Lightly profane night's sanctity.      What Love commands the train fulfills,      And beautiful upon the hills      Are these our feet of burnished steel.      Subtly and certainly I feel      That Glen Rock welcomes us to her      And silent Ridgewood seems to stir      And smile, because she knows the train      Has brought her children back again.      We carry people home -- and so      God speeds us, wheresoe'er we go.      Hohokus, Waldwick, Allendale      Lift sleepy heads to give us hail.      In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern stand      Houses that wistfully demand      A father -- son -- some human thing      That this, the midnight train, may bring.      The trains that travel in the day      They hurry folks to work or play.      The midnight train is slow and old      But of it let this thing be told,      To its high honor be it said      It carries people home to bed.      My cottage lamp shines white and clear.      God bless the train that brought me here.