Trumpets

To hear the locomotive whistle now,

Across the darkening flats, where scanty light

Lingers on desolate wastes of scrubby white-

When lamps are lit and stars above the brow

Of that dark mountain gleam, and pine-trees bow

In polar winds-constricts my soul with fright.

Only the wild goose trumpeting by night

Makes creep my flesh like this-I know not how.

Whence comes this sadness in the voice of strength,

And what prolongs this wail to such a length?

Is it the voice of progress that foresees

Red breakers and a lee shore's fatal frown,

Or shrieks of millions that of old went down

Wailing' for lost worlds'and their dream of peace?