GOING BACK

THE NIGHT turns slowly round,

Swift trains go by in a rush of light;

Slow trains steal past.

This train beats anxiously, outward bound.

But I am not here.

I am away, beyond the scope of this turning;

There, where the pivot is, the axis

Of all this gear.

I, who sit in tears,

I, whose heart is torn with parting;

Who cannot bear to think back to the departure platform;

My spirit hears

Voices of men

Sound of artillery, aeroplanes, presences,

And more than all, the dead-sure silence,

The pivot again.

There, at the axis

Pain, or love, or grief

Sleep on speed; in dead certainty;

Pure relief.

There, at the pivot

Time sleeps again.

No has-been, no here-after; only the perfected

Silence of men.