Trees and Other Poems by Joyce Kilmer The Twelve-Forty-Five (For Edward J. Wheeler) Within the Jersey City shedThe 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 starsGleam on the groaning hurrying cars.Against the kind and awful reignOf darkness, this our angry train, A noisy little rebel, poutsIts brief defiance, flames and shouts -And passes on, and leaves no trace.For darkness holds its ancient place, Serene and absolute, the ...
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Trees and Other Poems by Joyce Kilmer The Twelve-Forty-Five (For Edward J. Wheeler) Within the Jersey City shedThe 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 starsGleam on the groaning hurrying cars.Against the kind and awful reignOf darkness, this our angry train, A noisy little rebel, poutsIts brief defiance, flames and shouts -And passes on, and leaves no trace.For darkness holds its ancient place, Serene and absolute, the kingUnchanged, of every living thing.The houses lie obscure and stillIn Rutherford and Carlton Hill.Our lamps intensify the darkOf slumbering Passaic Park.And quiet holds the weary feetThat daily tramp through Prospect Street.What though we clang and clank and roarThrough all Passaic's streets? No doorWill open, not an eye will seeWho this loud vagabond may be.Upon my crimson cushioned seat, In manufactured light and heat, I feel unnatural and mean.Outside the towns are cool and clean;Curtained awhile from sound and sightThey take God's gracious gift of night.The stars are watchful over them.On Clifton as on BethlehemThe angels, leaning down the sky, Shed peace and gentle dreams. And I -I ride, I blasphemously rideThrough all the silent countryside.The engine's shriek, the headlight's glare, Pollute the still nocturnal air.The cottages of Lake View sighAnd sleeping, frown as we pass by.Why, even strident PatersonRests quietly as any nun.Her foolish warring children keepThe grateful armistice of sleep.For what tremendous errand's sakeAre we so blatantly awake?What precious secret is our freight?What king must be abroad so late?Perhaps Death roams the hills to-nightAnd we rush forth to give him fight.Or else, perhaps, we speed his wayTo some remote unthinking prey.Perhaps a woman writhes in painAnd listens - listens for the train!The train, that like an angel sings, The train, with healing on its wings. We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive Classic Library collection. Many of the books in our collection have been out of print for decades, and therefore have not been accessible to the general public. The aim of our publishing program is to facilitate rapid access to this vast reservoir of literature, and our view is that this is a significant literary work, which deserves to be brought back into print after many decades. The contents of the vast majority of titles in the Classic Library have been scanned from the original works. To ensure a high quality product, each title has been meticulously hand curated by our staff. Our philosophy has been guided by a desire to provide the reader with a book that is as close as possible to ownership of the original work. We hope that you will enjoy this wonderful classic work, and that for you it becomes an enriching expe
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