Burning stars in a frosty sky,

Thread-bare winds from the hollow west,

“Give us a garment of beauty!” they cry,

“For the waters of truth our throats are dry,

And phantoms of chaos uncover the bones of our breast,

Leaving us little rest.”

Bitter stars in a frozen sky,

Tattered winds from the lonely west,

Haggard beggars of hours that die—

(Begging the gift of a golden lie!)

Is it with you as with us, no rest, no rest—

Is it with you no rest?

The lacy chequer of aerial boughs

That winter weaves with delicate wizardry.

Far away—who knows how far?—

Against the flaming calm of winter twilight,

I hear the voice of speed—muffled and hoarse,

Sounding across the hills.

Locomotive, locomotive,

Over the hills at night,

Running on your far-away groove

With the husky pant of things that move

And cannot turn to left or right,

Of things that toil and things that pass

In the murk of smoke and the stench of gas,

Serf of the monstrous city,

What pity—oh what pity

For the dearth of your delight,

Locomotive, locomotive,

Over the hills at night!