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TREES AND OTHER POEMS

THE TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE (continued) 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.

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 sight

They take God's gracious gift of night.

The stars are watchful over them.

On Clifton as on Bethlehem

The angels, leaning down the sky,

Shed peace and gentle dreams. And I—

I ride, I blasphemously ride

Through all the silent countryside.

The engine's shriek, the headlight s glare,

Pollute the still nocturnal air.

The cottages of Lake View sigh

And sleeping, frown as we pass by.

Why, even strident Paterson

Rests quietly as any nun. [ 14 ]