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.