Full of adieus as this late train

The World’s great Autumn blows at last

And far and shrill across the plain

Whistles the engine of the Past.

Stitching the night with threads of fire,

A stream of fire-flies lit with pain,

Though Life should prove a shunting train

That rumbles on the wheels of ire,

With contraband I’ve lit my pipe

The strong tobacco of my Luck,

There are few tears for us to wipe

Who travel in the cheapest truck

Whose lamp swings like an orange, ripe

And ready for the Muse to pluck.