The night vibrates with the chatter of trucks,
Of clanking couplings and screaming wheels;
A column of smoke glows pink from an engine's fire,
The stoker's face shines for a moment, his breath congeals
In the freezing air. Under the swaying lamps
Blobbing shadow and light, the lines gleam yellow
And the last pastel-green streak dies in the west.
Over the nightmare scene, the faint mists mellow
The grotesque silhouettes, the aura of guillotine.
Calmly upon it the moon, a silver shaving,
Looks down, gravely comprehending
The rattling and shunting, the raving
Activity of man, the never-ending
Obsession to be doing, to carry the light
Of self-importance through omniscient night.