John Runcie

“ 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. ”

“ Soft haze upon the mountain and a haze upon the sea,
⁠High noon above the Gardens and shadows on the way;
And twenty weary people slipping out of time awee,—
⁠Out of time and out of trouble, on a hot midsummer's day. ”

“ In the shadows of the Gardens the wearied come to rest,
⁠In the spacious dusk and quiet the fevered blood is stilled;
While sleep, on tiptoe stepping, lays aside the hopeless quest,
⁠Takes away the fag of travel and the promise unfulfilled;
In white and gold and purple the wondrous petals gleam;
In white and gold and purple is the wondrous slope of dream. ”