The trains are passing ... passing ... and the cargo they are hurrying
thither is the youth of our country and the hope of our homes....
By thousands they are massed together; they sit on the roofs of the
wagons, they hang on to their sides, they balance themselves in
perilous positions, but all of them are gay, ... they shout, they sing,
they laugh....
And the trains pass, pass ... all day the trains pass.... With hands
full of flowers we hurry to the stations; our hearts are heavy; we long
to say words they will remember, to tell them what we feel, but their
voices raised in chorus drown all we would say.
One cry is on every lip when they see me, "We are going! Going gladly,
going to victory, so that you may become Empress--Empress of all the
Rumanians!" There is hardly a voice that does not say it; it is the cry
of every heart; they hope it, they believe it, they mean it to me, and
I smile back at them offering them my flowers, which they clutch at
with eager hands.
And thus the trains pass ... pass....