Out Of The Window

In the middle of countries, far from hills and sea,     Are the little places one passes by in trains     And never stops at; where the skies extend     Uninterrupted, and the level plains     Stretch green and yellow and green without an end.     And behind the glass of their Grand Express     Folk yawn away a province through,     With nothing to think of, nothing to do,     Nothing even to look at--never a "view"     In this damned wilderness.     But I look out of the window and find     Much to satisfy the mind.     Mark how the furrows, formed and wheeled     In a motion orderly and staid,     Sweep, as we pass, across the field     Like a drilled army on parade.     And here's a market-garden, barred     With stripe on stripe of varied greens ...     Bright potatoes, flower starred,     And the opacous colour of beans.     Each line deliberately swings     Towards me, till I see a straight     Green avenue to the heart of things,     The glimpse of a sudden opened gate     Piercing the adverse walls of fate ...     A moment only, and then, fast, fast,     The gate swings to, the avenue closes;     Fate laughs, and once more interposes     Its barriers.              The train has passed.