by C. H. Crandall
With ear to ground
I catch the sound,
The warning courier-roar
That runs along before.
The pulsing, struggling, now is clearer!
The hillsides echo "nearer, nearer,"
Till like a drove of rushing, trampling
With dust and wind and clang and
Shriek and rattle,
Passes the cyclops of the train!
I see a fair face at the pane,--
Like a piano string
The rails, unburdened, sing;
The white smoke flies
Up to the skies;