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.

by Elizabeth Daryush

Comments (2)

Heartfelt sadness, I feel the pain here. Excellent poem Barbara---Melvina
Many laments seem to me, subtly superficial. This piece is just a hair-shy of a lament but somehow deeper and more genuine. Again, excellent work Barbara. -Tailor