On a morning sick as the day of doom

   With the drizzling gray

   Of an English May,

There were few in the railway waiting-room.

About its walls were framed and varnished

Pictures of liners, fly-blown, tarnished.

The table bore a Testament

For travellers’ reading, if suchwise bent.

      I read it on and on,

   And, thronging the Gospel of Saint John,

   Were figures—additions, multiplications—

By some one scrawled, with sundry emendations;

      Not scoffingly designed,

      But with an absent mind,—

   Plainly a bagman’s counts of cost,

   What he had profited, what lost;

And whilst I wondered if there could have been

      Any particle of a soul

      In that poor man at all,

   To cypher rates of wage

   Upon that printed page,

   There joined in the charmless scene

And stood over me and the scribbled book

   (To lend the hour’s mean hue

   A smear of tragedy too)

A soldier and wife, with haggard look

Subdued to stone by strong endeavour;

   And then I heard

   From a casual word

They were parting as they believed for ever.

   But next there came

   Like the eastern flame

Of some high altar, children—a pair—

Who laughed at the fly-blown pictures there.

“Here are the lovely ships that we,

Mother, are by and by going to see!

When we get there it’s ’most sure to be fine,

And the band will play, and the sun will shine!”

It rained on the skylight with a din

As we waited and still no train came in;

But the words of the child in the squalid room

Had spread a glory through the gloom.