Hart Crane - From 'The Bridge'

Behind my father’s cannery works I used to see
Rail-squatters ranged in nomad raillery.
The ancient men – wifeless or runaway
Hobo-trekkers that forever search
An empire wilderness of freight and rails.
Each seemed a child, like me, on a loose perch,
Holding to childhood like some termless play.
John, Jake, or Charley, hopping the slow freights
– Memphis to Tallahassee – riding the words,
Blind fists of nothing, humpty-dumpty clods.
They lurk across her, knowing her yonder breast
Snow-silvered, sumac-stained or smoky blue –
Is past the valley-sleepers, south or west.
As I have trod the rumorous midnights, too....