I wake from dreams and turning
     My vision on the height
I scan the beacons burning
     About the fields of night.

Each in its steadfast station
     Inflaming heaven they flare;
They sign with conflagration
     The empty moors of air.

The signal-fires of warning
     They blaze, but none regard;
And on through night to morning
     The world runs ruinward. — A.E. Housman in More Poems (1936)

There was a young fellow named Bright
Who travelled much faster than light.
     He set off one day,
     In a relative way
And came back the previous night. — Anonymous