The Passing of the Night Express

Out of the night it comes, faint, far away,
An ever growing, rhythnic song of power
A surging, swelling, sweeping song, that breaks
The tranquil stillness of this midnight hour.
I hear it throbbing nearer as I stand My eyes alight with long-lost eagerness
Recalling days of boyhood, when I loved
To watch the passing of the night express.
Ah! here she comes at last. Her searchlight's beam
Illuminates the track with ghostly light,
And shows the shining rails, with silver sheen,
Twisting like sinuous serpents through the night.
Before me now she passes, swift as thought,
As in the days of boyhood, just the same.
Like bold knight-errant faring forth to fight,
Beneath a smoke-white pennant, edged with flame.
On, on, she sweeps with unabated pace
And round the bend is quickly lost to sight,
But still I know she journeys ever on
Singing her song of power, into the night.

G. W. R. Watson.

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