The Twelve-Forty-Five

(For Edward J. Wheeler)

     Within the Jersey City shed
     The 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 stars
     Gleam on the groaning hurrying cars.
     Against the kind and awful reign
     Of darkness, this our angry train,
     A noisy little rebel, pouts
     Its brief defiance, flames and shouts --
     And passes on, and leaves no trace.
     For darkness holds its ancient place,
     Serene and absolute, the king
     Unchanged, of every living thing.
     The houses lie obscure and still
     In Rutherford and Carlton Hill.
     Our lamps intensify the dark
     Of slumbering Passaic Park.
     And quiet holds the weary feet
     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.
     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,
     And beautiful upon the hills
     Are these our feet of burnished steel.
     Subtly and certainly I feel
     That Glen Rock welcomes us to her
     And silent Ridgewood seems to stir
     And smile, because she knows the train
     Has brought her children back again.
     We carry people home -- and so
     God speeds us, wheresoe'er we go.
     Hohokus, Waldwick, Allendale
     Lift sleepy heads to give us hail.
     In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern stand
     Houses that wistfully demand
     A father -- son -- some human thing
     That this, the midnight train, may bring.
     The trains that travel in the day
     They hurry folks to work or play.
     The midnight train is slow and old
     But of it let this thing be told,
     To its high honor be it said
     It carries people home to bed.
     My cottage lamp shines white and clear.
     God bless the train that brought me here.