Other formats

    TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  

Connect

    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 2, Issue 8 (December 1, 1927)

Journey

page 15

Journey.

The following charming poem by Harold Munro, one of our present-day poets, shows the romance of train travel, the human interest attaching to train trips, and gives reasons for the lure of the rail. The metre at times is artfully contrived to give an impression of the tunes played by the wheels as they pass over the rail-joints.

How many times I nearly miss the train
By running up the staircase once again
For some dear trifle nearly left behind.
At that last moment the unwary mind
Forgets the solemn tick of station-time;
The muddy lane the feet must climb-
The bridge-the ticket-signal down-
Train just emerging beyond the town:
The great blue engine panting as it takes
The final curve, and grinding on its brakes
Up to the platform-edge… The little doors
Swing open, while the burly porter roars.
The tight compartment fills; our careful eyes
Go to explore each other's destinies.
A lull. The stationmaster waves. The train
Gathers, and grips, and takes the rails again,
Moves to the shining open land, and soon
Begins to tittle-tattle a tame tattoon.

They ramble through the countryside,
Dear gentle monsters, and we ride
Pleasantly seated-so we sink
Into a torpor on the brink
Of thought, or read our books, and understand
Half them and half the backward-gliding land
(Trees in a dance all twirling round;
Large rivers flowing with no sound;
The scattered images of town and field;
Shining flowers half concealed).
And, having settled to an equal rate,
They swing the curve and straighten to the straight,
Curtail their stride and gather up their joints,
Snort, dwindle their steam for the noisy points,
Leap them in safety, and, the other side,
Loop again to an even stride.

The long train moves: we move in it along,
Like an old ballad, or an endless song,
It drones and wimbles its unwearied croon-
Croons, drones, and mumbles all the afternoon.
Towns with their fifty chimneys close and high,
Wreathed in great smoke between the earth and sky,
It hurtles through them, and you think it must
Halt-but it shrieks and sputters them with dust,
Cracks like a bullet through their big affairs,
Rushes the station-bridge, and disappears
Out to the suburb, laying bare
Each garden trimmed with pitiful care;
Children are caught at idle play,
Held a moment, and thrown away.

Oh, the wild engine! Every time I sit
In any train I must remember it.
The way it smashes through the air; its great
Petulant majesty and terrible rate;
Driving the ground before it, with those round
Feet pounding, eating, covering the ground.
The piston using up the white steam so
You cannot watch its rapid come-and-go;
The cutting, the embankment; how it takes
The tunnels, and the clatter that it makes;
So careful of the train and of the track,
Guiding us out or helping us go back;
Breasting its destination: at the close
Yawning, and slowly dropping to a dose.

We who have looked each other in the eyes
This journey long, and trundled with the train
Now to our separate purposes must rise,
Becoming decent strangers once again.
Our common purposes made us all like friends.
How suddenly it ends!
A nod, a murmur, or a smile,
Or often nothing, and away we file.
I hate to leave you, comrades. I will stay
To watch you drift apart and pass away.
It seems impossible to go and meet
All those strange eyes of people in the street.
But, like some proud unconscious god, the train
Gathers us up and scatters us again.