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| The Catholic Press, April 19, 1906. p. 4. |
You may say there is nothing of weird romance in the practical prose of steam;
But you never have sat in the dust and smoke and seen that the track was clear,
Nor held the reins of the steed that leaves the wind in its wild career.
No soulless, dull machine I drive, for I feel her passionate breath.
When I ride her over the endless rails that run to the brink of death.
My fireman, lit by the flame's red glare; Myself and our engine—o'er valley and height
We three are as one, and together we share The marvellous triumph and glory of flight !
My will is hers and her strength is mine. Past the sand hills gray, and low,
Through the shimmering cornfield's long, green line and the sounding woods we go !
There is naught on the bridge that checks her speed, and naught in the tunnel she fears,
For my slightest touch on the throttle she feels, and my softest whisper she hears.
Only a touch and a whispered word, on the trestle narrow and high,
When she trembles and shrinks on the dangerous curve, or a freight train thunders by.
Loud is the shriek of the startled air—Long is the stretch of the roadbed white;
We three are as one, and together we share The marvellous triumph and glory of flight !
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