Classic Poem

In the chill, grey drip of a winter morn
They dragged us off to jail.
The young moon tipped her ghostly horn
Where a patch of mist grew pale. . . .

Closer our ragged coats we drew,
Though it was in the South. . . .
The Sheriff had on eye 'stead of two
And a cruel twist to his mouth. . . .

The Yard was full of shadowy cars. . . .
A distant whistle screamed.
Switch-lights glimmered like scattered stars. . . .
An engine clanked and steamed. . . .

Dusk cars, dim-bodied, looming shapes,
Stood ranged in a huddled line. . . .
In soft release the air escapes;
A lantern lifts, a-shine. . . .

It lifts and falls … the cinders crunch. . . .
A brakeman passes near …
Then the cars jerk and roar and plunge
Like herds that move with fear. . . .

And so they led us off to jail
Upon that winter morn
When the young moon made the dusk grow pale
With the fire of its fading horn.