O how the little towns flare in passing!

On the sidings, the obsolete engines,

How black by moonlight they gleam, thy cast skins,

O serpent, over the dead coals gliding,

More beautiful than the illustrations

In medical texts, or illegible

Manuscripts, corrupt beyond restoring!

Always to be longing to be elsewhere

O the distancel the futures receding!

And always within, one’s own vacancies,

Dark, dark as the spaces between the stars.

Ah, old companion, much-travelled Satan,

Alas, what destination but oneself?

And O how the miles reel at the wide gaze!