J.
C.
SQUIRE .
ON
A
RAILWAY
STATION .
wilent wall a
platform
tomy sight
SI stand waiting
in
the
rain
A
For
the foggy
hoot of the
London
train ,
Gazing
at silent wall
and
lamp
And
post
and rail and
platform
damp ,
What
is this power that
comes
to my sight
That I
see
a night without
the night,
That I
see
them
clear ,
yet
look
them
through
The
silvery
things
and
the darkly
blue,
That
the
solid
wall
seems
soft
as
death ,
A
wavering
and
unanchored
wraith ,
And
rails
that shine
and
stones
that
stream
Unsubstantial
as
a
dream
?
What
sudden
door
has opened
so,
What
hand has passed , that
I
should
know
This moving
vision
not
of
trance
That melts
the globe
of
circumstance,
This
sight that marks not least
or most
And makes
a
stone
a
passing
ghost ?
Is
it
that
a
year
ago
I
stood
upon
this self -same spot ;
Is
it
that
since
a
year ago
The
place
and
I have
altered
not ;
Is
it
that
I half
forgot,
A
year
ago , and
all
despised
For
a
space
the
things that
I
had
prized
:
The
race
of
life
,
the
glittering
show
?
172