Up comes the sun. It seems to overflow through the chopped-out windows of a train of old red freight cars. Parked on the siding, but a few feet from the rushing roaring traffic, they lie silent, quiet, secluded. Silent freight cars, they have done their years of toil, hauling tons of dead weight all the way from Burlington, Quincy, and back. And now, their usefulness not gone, they are retired from the ranks of the rushing brawling freight cars to become the home of the section gangs, the home of the gandy dancers. A gandy dancer at 3 A.M. is a very ordinary individual. He yawns, snores, and sleeps the sleep of the wearied just like James Smith, or Harry Jones, or any other lawabiding citizen of this great U.S.A. But wake him up -- he's different from anyone else. because he's the builder, he's the repairer of the cold smooth silver bands, the trail for the giant locomotives, the guide-lines for the rhythmic flying Zephyrs -- the creator of the railroad tracks of the nation. But he wouldn't know. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON LOW; A MIDSUMMER LEGEND by MARY HOWITT UNDERWOODS: BOOK 1: 25. MOTHER AND SON by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON DECEMBER by ELIZABETH V. AUVACHE NIGHT ON OUR LIVES by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT ONLY A CURL by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE WANDERER: 3. IN ENGLAND: MIDGES by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON TO OUR GIRLS by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR |