Break on the face of the mountain and lose themselves in the pass,
Where the rails are like threads of silver, and the boulders smooth as glass.
Forth with the grinding of couplings, the hissing and snorting of steam,
Till the rails spun out behind her like spider-threads agleam,
Till she roared at the foot of the mountain, and brawled through the echoing glen,
Roaring, rocking, and ringing out her pagan of conquering men.
Right to the edge of a boulder, ominous, big, and black;
Plucking our hearts to our parching throats with the open track;
Then forth like a driving piston straight from its irons heath,
Till the wind stormed down on our faces, and we could not see nor breathe.
Looping, climbing, and falling, panting and swooping she sped,
Like a snake at the foot of the mountain, with her great white lamp ahead;
Shouldering the heavy gradients, heedless of breathing spells,
And racing away like a maddened steed down the sloping parallels.
