The lacy chequer of aerial boughsThat winter weaves with delicate wizardry.* * *Far away—who knows how far?—Against the flaming calm of winter twilight,I hear the voice of speed—muffled and hoarse,Sounding across the hills.* * *Locomotive, locomotive,Over the hills at night,Running on your far-away grooveWith the husky pant of things that moveAnd cannot turn to left or right,Of things that toil and things that passIn the murk of smoke and the stench of gas,Serf of the monstrous city,What pity—oh what pityFor the dearth of your delight,Locomotive, locomotive,Over the hills at night!
The lacy chequer of aerial boughsThat winter weaves with delicate wizardry.* * *Far away—who knows how far?—Against the flaming calm of winter twilight,I hear the voice of speed—muffled and hoarse,Sounding across the hills.* * *Locomotive, locomotive,Over the hills at night,Running on your far-away grooveWith the husky pant of things that moveAnd cannot turn to left or right,Of things that toil and things that passIn the murk of smoke and the stench of gas,Serf of the monstrous city,What pity—oh what pityFor the dearth of your delight,Locomotive, locomotive,Over the hills at night!
The lacy chequer of aerial boughsThat winter weaves with delicate wizardry.
The lacy chequer of aerial boughs
That winter weaves with delicate wizardry.
* * *
* * *
Far away—who knows how far?—Against the flaming calm of winter twilight,I hear the voice of speed—muffled and hoarse,Sounding across the hills.
Far away—who knows how far?—
Against the flaming calm of winter twilight,
I hear the voice of speed—muffled and hoarse,
Sounding across the hills.
* * *
* * *
Locomotive, locomotive,Over the hills at night,Running on your far-away grooveWith the husky pant of things that moveAnd cannot turn to left or right,Of things that toil and things that passIn the murk of smoke and the stench of gas,Serf of the monstrous city,What pity—oh what pityFor the dearth of your delight,Locomotive, locomotive,Over the hills at night!
Locomotive, locomotive,
Over the hills at night,
Running on your far-away groove
With the husky pant of things that move
And cannot turn to left or right,
Of things that toil and things that pass
In the murk of smoke and the stench of gas,
Serf of the monstrous city,
What pity—oh what pity
For the dearth of your delight,
Locomotive, locomotive,
Over the hills at night!