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THE trains dream in the dew for hours outside
The stations, then unmoor, and grate, and glide ...
I love the wet trains passing through the fields,
Long caravans of all the country yields;
Those that sleep in the shunting; and the train
Clad with tarpaulin cloak against the rain ...
And trains of bullocks bellowing as they pass
The farm where they were born, and sniff its grass ...
And all grey carriages close shut and warm,
Whose silence glitters through the pelting storm,
With their inscriptions faded, and their cold,
Pale windows ... the surrendered rest they hold ...
Their flickering lanterns when the morning comes ...
And how the sleepy engine puffs and hums!...
A hand runs up the blind, and pulls it back ...
The hamlet where the grass grows by the track ...
The suburbs ... carriages where nothing stirs,
Where you can hear the breath of passengers ...
The blue-veiled lamps that palpitate ... the train
That crosses us and tells us of its pain,
While we in corners brood, and wonder why
We hear it still when it has echoed by ...
And the green halt where you can hear the quails,
With their sad, solitary note ... and rails
Blocked, while a whistle sounds and buffers clash,
And regular signals through the darkness flash ...
Mysterious calls we cannot comprehend ...
And, after being cradled without end
In jolts the listless soul is broken in,
The snorting entrance, with a brazen din,
Of the train bounding onwards as to joys
In the great cities full of buzzing noise!...
And here refracted is the chaste, white beam,
Which led me through the world from dream to dream,
O infinite rails under the moonlight cold,
To whom my heart its bitterness has told
In all the partings unto which it yields ...

 

I love the wet trains passing through the fields.