A train from Taiwan



 


THE trains dream in the dew for hours outside The stations, then unmoor, and grate, and glide ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields, Long caravans of all the country yields; Those that sleep in the shunting; and the train Clad with tarpaulin cloak against the rain ... And trains of bullocks bellowing as they pass The farm where they were born, and sniff its grass ... And all grey carriages close shut and warm, Whose silence glitters through the pelting storm, With their inscriptions faded, and their cold, Pale windows ... the surrendered rest they hold ... Their flickering lanterns when the morning comes ... And how the sleepy engine puffs and hums!... A hand runs up the blind, and pulls it back ... The hamlet where the grass grows by the track ... The suburbs ... carriages where nothing stirs, Where you can hear the breath of passengers ... The blue-veiled lamps that palpitate ... the train That crosses us and tells us of its pain, While we in corners brood, and wonder why We hear it still when it has echoed by ... And the green halt where you can hear the quails, With their sad, solitary note ... and rails Blocked, while a whistle sounds and buffers clash, And regular signals through the darkness flash ... Mysterious calls we cannot comprehend ... And, after being cradled without end In jolts the listless soul is broken in, The snorting entrance, with a brazen din, Of the train bounding onwards as to joys In the great cities full of buzzing noise!... And here refracted is the chaste, white beam, Which led me through the world from dream to dream, O infinite rails under the moonlight cold, To whom my heart its bitterness has told In all the partings unto which it yields ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields.
Read more at http://www.blackcatpoems.com/b/trains.html#q2CECRDERM3BTrXu.99
THE trains dream in the dew for hours outside The stations, then unmoor, and grate, and glide ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields, Long caravans of all the country yields; Those that sleep in the shunting; and the train Clad with tarpaulin cloak against the rain ... And trains of bullocks bellowing as they pass The farm where they were born, and sniff its grass ... And all grey carriages close shut and warm, Whose silence glitters through the pelting storm, With their inscriptions faded, and their cold, Pale windows ... the surrendered rest they hold ... Their flickering lanterns when the morning comes ... And how the sleepy engine puffs and hums!... A hand runs up the blind, and pulls it back ... The hamlet where the grass grows by the track ... The suburbs ... carriages where nothing stirs, Where you can hear the breath of passengers ... The blue-veiled lamps that palpitate ... the train That crosses us and tells us of its pain, While we in corners brood, and wonder why We hear it still when it has echoed by ... And the green halt where you can hear the quails, With their sad, solitary note ... and rails Blocked, while a whistle sounds and buffers clash, And regular signals through the darkness flash ... Mysterious calls we cannot comprehend ... And, after being cradled without end In jolts the listless soul is broken in, The snorting entrance, with a brazen din, Of the train bounding onwards as to joys In the great cities full of buzzing noise!... And here refracted is the chaste, white beam, Which led me through the world from dream to dream, O infinite rails under the moonlight cold, To whom my heart its bitterness has told In all the partings unto which it yields ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields.
Read more at http://www.blackcatpoems.com/b/trains.html#q2CECRDERM3BTrXu.99
THE trains dream in the dew for hours outside The stations, then unmoor, and grate, and glide ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields, Long caravans of all the country yields; Those that sleep in the shunting; and the train Clad with tarpaulin cloak against the rain ... And trains of bullocks bellowing as they pass The farm where they were born, and sniff its grass ... And all grey carriages close shut and warm, Whose silence glitters through the pelting storm, With their inscriptions faded, and their cold, Pale windows ... the surrendered rest they hold ... Their flickering lanterns when the morning comes ... And how the sleepy engine puffs and hums!... A hand runs up the blind, and pulls it back ... The hamlet where the grass grows by the track ... The suburbs ... carriages where nothing stirs, Where you can hear the breath of passengers ... The blue-veiled lamps that palpitate ... the train That crosses us and tells us of its pain, While we in corners brood, and wonder why We hear it still when it has echoed by ... And the green halt where you can hear the quails, With their sad, solitary note ... and rails Blocked, while a whistle sounds and buffers clash, And regular signals through the darkness flash ... Mysterious calls we cannot comprehend ... And, after being cradled without end In jolts the listless soul is broken in, The snorting entrance, with a brazen din, Of the train bounding onwards as to joys In the great cities full of buzzing noise!... And here refracted is the chaste, white beam, Which led me through the world from dream to dream, O infinite rails under the moonlight cold, To whom my heart its bitterness has told In all the partings unto which it yields ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields.
Read more at http://www.blackcatpoems.com/b/trains.html#q2CECRDERM3BTrXu.99

"Just you and me on a train"

There's nothing quite like sitting on a train
You're wondering what thrills the trip will bring
As countryside rolls past the window pane
And you listen to the songs the wheels sing

Mountains in the distance travel too
But stations and their towns flash by half seen
In the seat that faces me is you
Smiling at the passing country scene

Another smile is hidden in my face
It's driven by the thoughts of things to be
The reason that we journey to this place
And also that you're travelling with me

Adventure on a train has still more charms
You cannot drive your car in lovers arms.


From here

THE trains dream in the dew for hours outside The stations, then unmoor, and grate, and glide ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields, Long caravans of all the country yields; Those that sleep in the shunting; and the train Clad with tarpaulin cloak against the rain ... And trains of bullocks bellowing as they pass The farm where they were born, and sniff its grass ... And all grey carriages close shut and warm, Whose silence glitters through the pelting storm, With their inscriptions faded, and their cold, Pale windows ... the surrendered rest they hold ... Their flickering lanterns when the morning comes ... And how the sleepy engine puffs and hums!... A hand runs up the blind, and pulls it back ... The hamlet where the grass grows by the track ... The suburbs ... carriages where nothing stirs, Where you can hear the breath of passengers ... The blue-veiled lamps that palpitate ... the train That crosses us and tells us of its pain, While we in corners brood, and wonder why We hear it still when it has echoed by ... And the green halt where you can hear the quails, With their sad, solitary note ... and rails Blocked, while a whistle sounds and buffers clash, And regular signals through the darkness flash ... Mysterious calls we cannot comprehend ... And, after being cradled without end In jolts the listless soul is broken in, The snorting entrance, with a brazen din, Of the train bounding onwards as to joys In the great cities full of buzzing noise!... And here refracted is the chaste, white beam, Which led me through the world from dream to dream, O infinite rails under the moonlight cold, To whom my heart its bitterness has told In all the partings unto which it yields ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields.
Read more at http://www.blackcatpoems.com/b/trains.html#q2CECRDERM3BTrXu.99
THE trains dream in the dew for hours outside The stations, then unmoor, and grate, and glide ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields, Long caravans of all the country yields; Those that sleep in the shunting; and the train Clad with tarpaulin cloak against the rain ... And trains of bullocks bellowing as they pass The farm where they were born, and sniff its grass ... And all grey carriages close shut and warm, Whose silence glitters through the pelting storm, With their inscriptions faded, and their cold, Pale windows ... the surrendered rest they hold ... Their flickering lanterns when the morning comes ... And how the sleepy engine puffs and hums!... A hand runs up the blind, and pulls it back ... The hamlet where the grass grows by the track ... The suburbs ... carriages where nothing stirs, Where you can hear the breath of passengers ... The blue-veiled lamps that palpitate ... the train That crosses us and tells us of its pain, While we in corners brood, and wonder why We hear it still when it has echoed by ... And the green halt where you can hear the quails, With their sad, solitary note ... and rails Blocked, while a whistle sounds and buffers clash, And regular signals through the darkness flash ... Mysterious calls we cannot comprehend ... And, after being cradled without end In jolts the listless soul is broken in, The snorting entrance, with a brazen din, Of the train bounding onwards as to joys In the great cities full of buzzing noise!... And here refracted is the chaste, white beam, Which led me through the world from dream to dream, O infinite rails under the moonlight cold, To whom my heart its bitterness has told In all the partings unto which it yields ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields.
Read more at http://www.blackcatpoems.com/b/trains.html#q2CECRDERM3BTrXu.99
THE trains dream in the dew for hours outside The stations, then unmoor, and grate, and glide ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields, Long caravans of all the country yields; Those that sleep in the shunting; and the train Clad with tarpaulin cloak against the rain ... And trains of bullocks bellowing as they pass The farm where they were born, and sniff its grass ... And all grey carriages close shut and warm, Whose silence glitters through the pelting storm, With their inscriptions faded, and their cold, Pale windows ... the surrendered rest they hold ... Their flickering lanterns when the morning comes ... And how the sleepy engine puffs and hums!... A hand runs up the blind, and pulls it back ... The hamlet where the grass grows by the track ... The suburbs ... carriages where nothing stirs, Where you can hear the breath of passengers ... The blue-veiled lamps that palpitate ... the train That crosses us and tells us of its pain, While we in corners brood, and wonder why We hear it still when it has echoed by ... And the green halt where you can hear the quails, With their sad, solitary note ... and rails Blocked, while a whistle sounds and buffers clash, And regular signals through the darkness flash ... Mysterious calls we cannot comprehend ... And, after being cradled without end In jolts the listless soul is broken in, The snorting entrance, with a brazen din, Of the train bounding onwards as to joys In the great cities full of buzzing noise!... And here refracted is the chaste, white beam, Which led me through the world from dream to dream, O infinite rails under the moonlight cold, To whom my heart its bitterness has told In all the partings unto which it yields ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields.
Read more at http://www.blackcatpoems.com/b/trains.html#q2CECRDERM3BTrXu.99
THE trains dream in the dew for hours outside The stations, then unmoor, and grate, and glide ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields, Long caravans of all the country yields; Those that sleep in the shunting; and the train Clad with tarpaulin cloak against the rain ... And trains of bullocks bellowing as they pass The farm where they were born, and sniff its grass ... And all grey carriages close shut and warm, Whose silence glitters through the pelting storm, With their inscriptions faded, and their cold, Pale windows ... the surrendered rest they hold ... Their flickering lanterns when the morning comes ... And how the sleepy engine puffs and hums!... A hand runs up the blind, and pulls it back ... The hamlet where the grass grows by the track ... The suburbs ... carriages where nothing stirs, Where you can hear the breath of passengers ... The blue-veiled lamps that palpitate ... the train That crosses us and tells us of its pain, While we in corners brood, and wonder why We hear it still when it has echoed by ... And the green halt where you can hear the quails, With their sad, solitary note ... and rails Blocked, while a whistle sounds and buffers clash, And regular signals through the darkness flash ... Mysterious calls we cannot comprehend ... And, after being cradled without end In jolts the listless soul is broken in, The snorting entrance, with a brazen din, Of the train bounding onwards as to joys In the great cities full of buzzing noise!... And here refracted is the chaste, white beam, Which led me through the world from dream to dream, O infinite rails under the moonlight cold, To whom my heart its bitterness has told In all the partings unto which it yields ... I love the wet trains passing through the fields.
Read more at http://www.blackcatpoems.com/b/trains.html#q2CECRDERM3BTrXu.99

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