When the day is long
And full of pain
I remember
A certain little lane
Where every night,
At half-past seven,
The train flashed by
On its way to heaven

There you and I,
Watching in the lane,
Dreamed of riding
Inside the train—
Away from the wide
Sun-flowered plain
And tall fields of
High rolling grain.

When night is long
And strangely sane,
I remember
A certain little lane,
Where, on one night—
So it befell—
The train passed heaven
On its way to hell.

—Eda Lou Walton, Beyond Sorrow, 1921