Hands and lit faces eddy to a line; br The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies. br Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine, br Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes br br Glares the imperious mystery of the way. br Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train br Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway, br Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again. . . . br br As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise, br Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love; br And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes, br Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move br br Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing; br And, gathering power and purpose as he goes, br Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing, br Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows, br br Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal, br Out of the fire, out of the little room. . . . br -- There is an end appointed, O my soul! br Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom br br Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers. br Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly, br Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers. br The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die. br br And lips and laughter are forgotten things. br Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on, br The strength and splendour of our purpose swings. br The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.