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

Glares the imperious mystery of the way.

Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed

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,

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

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.