POETRY.
Out from the station's noise and light Cleaving a forest of red and green Where one eye winks to white; Slow breath, stealthy breath Over the switches, into the keen Wind of the ghostly night.
Lusty steam, quickening steam With the glimmering levers wider thrown,
In a resolute rush to NH ahead:
Like a cresset of flame a fierce white cone Shoots to the clouds as the coal is spread; Hoarser steam, roaring steam Miles on miles of shining rail Gathered and flung behind in a havoc of speed ; This is the Mail, the Limited, Limited Mail Racing with letters and lives through hollow and mead, Crashing through cuttings that echo her fugitive din, Plunging to ambush in tunnels with sibilant blast, Winding in swift convolution by river and linn, Surging exult ant as county by county is passed.
Shut off steam, shut off steam, There the lights of the harbour gleam Hung in the sky like a starlit veil, And the great ship chafes in the dusky dawn Till the signals drop, as the whistling Mail Swings round to the docks and the night has gone. Brakes down, brakes down Skirling through the silent town, Steadily slowing, through the gates Where the stately liner waits ; Brakes down . . . brakes down . . .
Brakes . . . hard . . . down.
WILFRID L. 11ANDELL.
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