V. DE S. PINTO

Late at night in the station It is cold: the gas lamps shine, Down-pointing pyramids of yellow light In a long, solemn line. People are waiting on the platform, Pacing to the end and back, Or sitting huddled, drowsy, on the seats, All dressed in black. Their faces look pale and delicate like ivory; Far off in the night, Like the sinister eye of a wild beast, Winks a green light. So still, so still: a faint scream in the distance, Then silence and the train Crashes in, a golden horse, fiercely triumphant, Tossing his fiery mane.

You too have seen the great white swans, who glide Upon the lonely waters of the world, Curving their delicate necks with queenly pride Above the shining mirror, wherein is whirled All the wild seething mob of human things, The riot of men and those strange gods and kings, They set up on great golden thrones and crown With garlands of bright stars, then drag them down Into the mud with fierce tumultuous cries. Yes, all these wild reflections soon will pass, The drunken laughter and the vast distress, And the waters will be clear as polished glass, Imaging only calm unruffled skies, And the swans will still sail on in their proud loveliness.