CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER

It was a perfect night for a train. The occasional whistle told Louis of all the farewells he had ever known.

The little bee returns with evening's gloom, To join her comrades in the braided hive, Where, housed beside their might honey-comb, They dream their polity shall long survive.

When the whistle blew and the call stretched thin across the night, one had to believe that any journey could be sweet to the soul.

Not until he stood at the altar did he achieve a sense of being hale and furnished. It was strange, he thought, that a man would find his surest current in the spot where he felt least worthy.

The rainbow bursts like magic on mine eyes! In hues of ancient promise there imprest.

When the whistle blew and the call stretched thin across the night, one had to believe that any journey could be sweet to the soul.

It was a perfect night for a train. The occasional whistle told Louis of all the farewells he had ever known.

Not until he stood at the altar did he achieve a sense of being hale and furnished. It was strange, he thought, that a man would find his surest current in the spot where he felt least worthy.

The little bee returns with evening's gloom, To join her comrades in the braided hive, Where, housed beside their might honey-comb, They dream their polity shall long survive.

The rainbow bursts like magic on mine eyes! In hues of ancient promise there imprest.