Poetry Archives

I, who have lost the stars, the sod,
 For chilling pave and cheerless light,
Have made my meeting-place with God
 A new and nether Night—

Have found a fane where thunder fills
 Loud caverns, tremulous;—and these
Atone me for my reverend hills
 And moonlit silences.

A figment in the crowded dark,
 Where men sit muted by the roar,
I ride upon the whirring Spark
 Beneath the city’s floor.

In this dim firmament, the stars
 Whirl by in blazing files and tiers;
Kin meteors graze our flying bars,
 Amid the spinning spheres.

Speed! speed! until the quivering rails
 Flash silver where the head-light gleams,
As when on lakes the Moon impales
 The waves upon its beams.

Life throbs about me, yet I stand
 Outgazing on majestic Power;
Death rides with me, on either hand,
 In my communion hour.

You that ’neath country skies can pray,
 Scoff not at me—the city clod;—
My only respite of the Day
 Is this wild ride—with God.