The Twelve-Forty-Five by Joyce Kilmer — Read

(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.