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.