The Passenger

I SIT alone in a way station
On a long railroad,
Waiting for the train that will pick me up.
Nobody can tell me
Precisely when it will arrive,
Or precisely where it will put me down.
The print on my one-way ticket should help,
But it is a little blurred,
And, even if I could read
The name of my destination —
Never visited before —
It would not tell what may be found there.

Fond as I have always been of travel,
The thought of this as my last journey
For such I somehow know it to be —
Brings little comfort.
Yet let me not forget that all my journeys
Ha ve won a crown of happiness
Through coming home.
How will it be this time?
I hear a nearing bell and whistle —
The train will soon be here,
And I shall join its passengers,
Cumbered, myself, with little luggage,
But bearing in one hand
A parcel packed with thankfulness,
And in the other a parcel of surmise
Not unmixed with hope.