The Old 10.30 Train
BY MARION DRACE
IT’S raining out again tonight,A dismal, pelting rain,That drives against my windowWith a dripping, and againWith a rattling stormy fury,Sheets of water, waves of gray,Made gruesome by the thunderAnd the lightning’s livid play.It brings to me the gloom of life,An odd, most welcome pain,And once again the whistle of the old 10.30 train.With all this storm without, and meSo silent here alone,With all the distant past in view,Its evil to atone;With chin on hand, I wonder howI’d feel if I could beA boy again, with mother nearMe praying at her knee.How all the cares of life would fade,If I could hear againFrom out my cot the whistle of the old 10.30 train.I hear it far departingThis gloomy night and me,A-joying in the dying wailFrom which it seems to flee.The long, low cry is wafted backThrough night and rain and wind,A cry that seems congenial likeAnother soul that’s sinned.It makes me long for home and forMy cot, so cleanly plain,To doze just with the whistle of that old 10.30 train.Ah, life is not of solitude,Nor childhood joys alone,Its mirth not all departed, thoughWe reap the evil sown.But nights of rain and solitudeBring back the happy past—The freight that came so regularMy eyes to close at last.From all the now I quick would flee—It seems so full of pain—If I could sleep forever with that whistle’s wail again!
IT’S raining out again tonight,A dismal, pelting rain,That drives against my windowWith a dripping, and againWith a rattling stormy fury,Sheets of water, waves of gray,Made gruesome by the thunderAnd the lightning’s livid play.It brings to me the gloom of life,An odd, most welcome pain,And once again the whistle of the old 10.30 train.With all this storm without, and meSo silent here alone,With all the distant past in view,Its evil to atone;With chin on hand, I wonder howI’d feel if I could beA boy again, with mother nearMe praying at her knee.How all the cares of life would fade,If I could hear againFrom out my cot the whistle of the old 10.30 train.I hear it far departingThis gloomy night and me,A-joying in the dying wailFrom which it seems to flee.The long, low cry is wafted backThrough night and rain and wind,A cry that seems congenial likeAnother soul that’s sinned.It makes me long for home and forMy cot, so cleanly plain,To doze just with the whistle of that old 10.30 train.Ah, life is not of solitude,Nor childhood joys alone,Its mirth not all departed, thoughWe reap the evil sown.But nights of rain and solitudeBring back the happy past—The freight that came so regularMy eyes to close at last.From all the now I quick would flee—It seems so full of pain—If I could sleep forever with that whistle’s wail again!
IT’S raining out again tonight,A dismal, pelting rain,That drives against my windowWith a dripping, and againWith a rattling stormy fury,Sheets of water, waves of gray,Made gruesome by the thunderAnd the lightning’s livid play.It brings to me the gloom of life,An odd, most welcome pain,And once again the whistle of the old 10.30 train.
With all this storm without, and meSo silent here alone,With all the distant past in view,Its evil to atone;With chin on hand, I wonder howI’d feel if I could beA boy again, with mother nearMe praying at her knee.How all the cares of life would fade,If I could hear againFrom out my cot the whistle of the old 10.30 train.
I hear it far departingThis gloomy night and me,A-joying in the dying wailFrom which it seems to flee.The long, low cry is wafted backThrough night and rain and wind,A cry that seems congenial likeAnother soul that’s sinned.It makes me long for home and forMy cot, so cleanly plain,To doze just with the whistle of that old 10.30 train.
Ah, life is not of solitude,Nor childhood joys alone,Its mirth not all departed, thoughWe reap the evil sown.But nights of rain and solitudeBring back the happy past—The freight that came so regularMy eyes to close at last.From all the now I quick would flee—It seems so full of pain—If I could sleep forever with that whistle’s wail again!