The Division Superintendent

    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!”