The heavy train regathers speed,

And minute after minute

The country station drops behind—

Some spell is surely in it!

For now my fellow-travellers seem

No mark for peevish scorning—

Those withered lives had surely once

The innocence of morning.

But ah, the world’s use, soon or late,

Dispels the early glamour,

And faint the spheral music rings

In this incessant clamour!

Save when, at times, in some strange lull

Of tyrannous self-seeking,

The heart of memory is thrilled

By ancient voices speaking.

[27]

And then the cloud in which we walk

Rolls by us, and from dreaming

We wake to see the primal world

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