The Night Journey

Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;     The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.     Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine,     Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes     Glares the imperious mystery of the way.     Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train     Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway,     Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again. . . .     As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,     Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;     And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,     Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move     Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;     And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,     Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,     Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,     Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal,     Out of the fire, out of the little room. . . .     There is an end appointed, O my soul!     Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom     Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers.     Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly,     Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.     The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die.     And lips and laughter are forgotten things.     Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on,     The strength and splendour of our purpose swings.     The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.