Not a whistle was blowing, not a steam plume stirred.
The engines, all silent, in slumber did sleep,
While visions of passengers danced in their dreams.
The rails, silver gleamed in the pale moon's light,
As signals stood frozen, no red to ignite.
No coal clattered down, no pistons did churn,
Only soft winter snowflakes softly did turn.
On the roundhouse roof, perched high with...
