In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy, <br />And the roof-lamp's oily flame <br />Played down on his listless form and face, <br />Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going, <br />Or whence he came. <br /> <br />In the band of his hat the journeying boy <br />Had a ticket stuck; and a string <br />Around his neck bore the key of his box, <br />That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beams <br />Like a living thing. <br /> <br />What past can be yours, O journeying boy <br />Towards a world uknown, <br />Who calmly, as if incurious quite <br />On all at stake, can undertake <br />This plunge alone? <br /> <br />Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy, <br />Our rude realms far above, <br />Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete <br />This region of sin that you find you in, <br />But are not of?<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/midnight-on-the-great-western/
