Shapes of Clay

Baffled he stands upon the track—

The automatic switches clack.

Where'er he turns his solemn eyes

The interlocking signals rise.

The trains, before his visage pale,

Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail.

No splinter-spitted victim he

Hears uttering the note high C.

In sorrow deep he hangs his head,

A-weary—would that he were dead.

Now suddenly his spirits rise—

A great thought kindles in his eyes.

Hope, like a headlight's vivid glare,

Splendors the path of his despair.

His genius shines, the clouds roll back—

"I'll place obstructions on the track!"