Tommies In The Train

THE SUN SHINES,     The coltsfoot flowers along the railway banks     Shine like flat coin which Jove in thanks     Strews each side the lines.     A steeple     In purple elms, daffodils     Sparkle beneath; luminous hills     Beyond - and no people.     England, Oh Dana     To this spring of cosmic gold     That falls on your lap of mould!     What then are we?     What are we     Clay-coloured, who roll in fatigue     As the train falls league by league     From our destiny?     A hand is over my face,     A cold hand. I peep between the fingers     To watch the world that lingers     Behind, yet keeps pace.     Always there, as I peep     Between the fingers that cover my face!     Which then is it that falls from its place     And rolls down the steep?     Is it the train     That falls like meteorite     Backward into space, to alight     Never again?     Or is it the illusory world     That falls from reality     As we look? Or are we     Like a thunderbolt hurled?     One or another     Is lost, since we fall apart     Endlessly, in one motion depart     From each other.