Thoughts At A Railway Station.

'Tis but a box, of modest deal;      Directed to no matter where:     Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal -     Yes, I am blubbering like a seal;     For on it is this mute appeal,      "With care."     I am a stern cold man, and range      Apart: but those vague words "With care"     Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange:     Drawn from my moral Moated Grange,     I feel I rather like the change      Of air.     Hast thou ne'er seen rough pointsmen spy      Some simple English phrase - "With care"     Or "This side uppermost" - and cry     Like children? No? No more have I.     Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry      A bear.     But ah! what treasure hides beneath      That lid so much the worse for wear?     A ring perhaps - a rosy wreath -     A photograph by Vernon Heath -     Some matron's temporary teeth      Or hair!     Perhaps some seaman, in Peru      Or Ind, hath stow'd herein a rare     Cargo of birds' eggs for his Sue;     With many a vow that he'll be true,     And many a hint that she is too,      Too fair.     Perhaps - but wherefore vainly pry      Into the page that's folded there?     I shall be better by and by:     The porters, as I sit and sigh,     Pass and repass - I wonder why      They stare!