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TREES AND OTHER POEMS

THE TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE (continued) Her foolish warring children keep

The grateful armistice of sleep.

For what tremendous errand's sake

Are we so blatantly awake?

What precious secret is our freight?

What king must be abroad so late?

Perhaps Death roams the hills to-night

And we rush forth to give him fight.

Or else, perhaps, we speed his way

To some remote unthinking prey.

Perhaps a woman writhes in pain

And listens—listens for the train!

The train, that like an angel sings,

The train, with healing on its wings.

Now "Hawthorne!" the conductor cries.

My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes.

He hurries yawning through the car

And steps out where the houses are.

This is the reason of our quest!

Not wantonly we break the rest

Of town and village, nor do we

Lightly profane night's sanctity.

What Love commands the train fulfills, [ 15 ]