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!