Down at the end of the iron lane
I see the sunset's glare,
And the red bars lie across the sky
Like steps of a wondrous stair.
Below, the throng, with unlifted eye,
Sweeps on in its heedless flight
Where the street's black funnel pours its tide
Out into the deepening night.
And no one has stopped to read God's word
On the fiery heavens scrolled
Save an old man dreaming of boyhood's days,
And a boy who would fain be old.