XVII
The Railway Train
I like to see it lap the miles,And lick the valleys up,And stop to feed itself at tanks;And then, prodigious, step
Around a pile of mountains,And, supercilious, peerIn shanties by the sides of roads;And then a quarry pare
To fit its sides, and crawl between,Complaining all the whileIn horrid, hooting stanza;Then chase itself down hill
And neigh like Boanerges;Then, punctual as a star,Stop—docile and omnipotent—At its own stable door.