by D.H. LawrenceThe night turns slowly round, Swift trains go by in a rush of light; Slow trains steal past. This train beats anxiously, outward bound. But I am not here. I am away, beyond the scope of this turning; There, where the pivot is, the axis Of all this gear. I, who sit in tears, I, whose heart is torn with parting; Who cannot bear to think back to the departure platform; My spirit hears Voices of men Sound of artillery, aeroplanes, presences, And more than all, the dead-sure silence, The pivot again. There, at the axis Pain, or love, or grief Sleep on speed; in dead certainty; Pure relief. There, at the pivot Time sleeps again. No has-been, no here-after; only the perfected Silence of men.