Fly Leaves — Thoughts at a Railway Station

THOUGHTS AT A RAILWAY STATION.

’TIS but a box, of modest deal;

Directed to no matter where: Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal— Yes, I am blubbering like a seal;

For on it is this mute appeal, “_With care_.

” I am a stern cold man, and range Apart: but those vague words “_With care_” Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange: Drawn from my moral Moated Grange, I feel I rather like the change Of air.

Hast thou ne’er seen rough pointsmen spy Some simple English phrase—“_With care_” Or “_This side uppermost_”—and cry Like children?

No?

No more have I. Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry A bear.

But ah!

what treasure hides beneath That lid so much the worse for wear?

A ring perhaps—a rosy wreath— A photograph by Vernon Heath— Some matron’s temporary teeth Or hair!

Perhaps some seaman, in Peru Or Ind, hath stow’d herein a rare Cargo of birds’ eggs for his Sue;

With many a vow that he’ll be true, And many a hint that she is too, Too fair.

Perhaps—but wherefore vainly pry Into the page that’s folded there?

I shall be better by and by: The porters, as I sit and sigh, Pass and repass—I wonder why They stare!