Shapes of Clay

by Ambrose Bierce

THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT

THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT.

Baffled he stands upon the track--
The automatic switches clack.

Where'er he turns his solemn eyes
The interlocking signals rise.

The trains, before his visage pale,
Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail.

No splinter-spitted victim he
Hears uttering the note high C.

In sorrow deep he hangs his head,
A-weary--would that he were dead.

Now suddenly his spirits rise--
A great thought kindles in his eyes.

Hope, like a headlight's vivid glare,
Splendors the path of his despair.

His genius shines, the clouds roll back--
"I'll place obstructions on the track!"