By four the buses stretch along the pike.
The road is darker for their string of light.
The barren fields and snowy hills are black.
The moon is down; no guiding stars in sight.
To Washington against a war again.
We read or talk or snooze; the hours creep.
The bus, I know, runs swiftly through the night.
And serves our stand for peace in winter deep.
I want to help the dawn. I want to see
the spring green spread across the hilly dark.
Would daybreak come if we stayed home asleep?
At least each turnpike mile we see a mark.
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