Chester Firkins

I, WHO have lost the stars, the sod,

For chilling pave and cheerless light,

Have made my meeting-place with God

A new and nether Night—

Have found a fane where thunder fills

Loud caverns, tremulous;—and these

Atone me for my reverend hills

And moonlit silences.

A figment in the crowded dark,

Where men sit muted by the roar,

I ride upon the whirring Spark

Beneath the city’s floor.

In this dim firmament, the stars

Whirl by in blazing files and tiers;

Kin meteors graze our flying bars,

Amid the spinning spheres.

Speed! speed! until the quivering rails

Flash silver where the head-light gleams,

As when on lake the Moon impales

The waves upon its beams.

Life throbs about me, yet I stand

Outgazing on majestic Power;

Death rides with me, on either hand,

In my communion hour.

You that ’neath country skies can pray,

Scoff not at me—the city clod;—

My only respite of the Day

Is this wild ride—with God.