The Railroad
Along the iron rails
Plod still with panting power,
Range still the empty trails
Hour after hour;
Stare still where looms ahead
Each signal-skeleton,
Whose jerking arms forbid
Or bid you on,
Whose grim lamps rule the glooms
With stringent red or green—
Forget your sunny home’s
Wild-paths between
Primrose and violet,
Your breeze-lit fields of rye...
Your golden sheaves forget—
Forget, or die.
