The Night Turns Slowly Round, Swift Trains Go By In A Rush Of Light; Slow Trains Steal Past. This Train Beats Anxiously, Outward Bound. But I Am Not Here. I Am Away, Beyond The Scope Of This Turning; There, Where The Pivot Is, The Axis Of All This Gear. I, Who Sit In Tears, I, Whose Heart Is Torn With Parting; Who Cannot Bear To Think Back To The Departure Platform; My Spirit Hears Voices Of Men Sound Of Artillery, Aeroplanes, Presences, And More Than All, The Dead-Sure Silence, The Pivot Again. There, At The Axis Pain, Or Love, Or Grief Sleep On Speed; In Dead Certainty; Pure Relief. There, At The Pivot Time Sleeps Again. No Has-Been, No Here-After; Only The Perfected Silence Of Men.