THE NIGHT turns slowly
round,
Swift trains
go by in a rush of light;
Slow trains steal past.
This train beats anxiously,
outward bound.
But I am not here.
I am away, beyond the scope of
this turning;
There,
where the pivot is, the axis
Of all this gear.
I, who sit in tears,
I, whose heart is torn with
parting;
Who cannot
bear to think back to the departure
platform;
My spirit
hears
Voices of men
Sound of artillery, aeroplanes,
presences,
And more
than all, the dead-sure silence,
The pivot again.
There, at the axis
Pain, or love, or
grief
Sleep on
speed; in dead certainty;
Pure relief.
There, at the pivot
Time sleeps again.
No has-been, no here-after;
only the perfected
Silence of men.