You seem tired…
And your blue eyes
Are almost shut
On the busy trail.
You doze
Whilst a heavy head rocks
Gently in the sway
Beyond the sound
Of the headlong rush,
Back and forth, -
The gush
Of the long, dark tunnel,
Or opposing train,
Heard through the drifting scene…
The gold-brown autumn fields,
Sparsely peppered with sheep,
Your sleep
Is hardly interrupted,
And your beautiful, round face,
That of an angel
Of some kind,
Remains unperturbed…
Even as the journey draws
To its end,
You do not disclose
Your mystery…
As you awake serene
In your sober city garb
At Saint Albans.
And even with your loss,
Your memory remains
Pleasantly with me.
You alone have inspired
These lines.
You have fired
A longing to record.
You, you!
You unknown lady
Of this mortal plain,
Now gone ...without a word.
