From Ailenroc’s Book, by Cornelia Alexander
At a wayside station sat an old man,
As the twilight gathered o’er the plain;
He had waited since the early morning,
Waited for the coming of the train.
Bent was his form by the weight of years,
Bleached his locks by the sun and rain;
Yet patient and calmly he sat and watched,
And waited for the coming of the train.
It came at last, with a tolling bell;
It passed with a fluttering breath,
And the Great Engineer took the old man home
On the train that men called Death.
O, friends, at our wayside stations
We are waiting in our sorrow and pain,
Listening to the rush of the wheels of time,
Waiting for the coming of the train.