A constant keeping-past of shaken trees, 
And a bewildered glitter of loose road; 
Banks of bright growth, with single blades atop 
Against white sky; and wires?a constant chain? 
That seem to draw the clouds along with them 
(Things which one stoops against the light to see 
Through the low window; shaking by at rest, 
Or fierce like water as the swiftness grows); 
And, seen through fences or a bridge far off, 
Trees that in moving keep their intervals 
Still one 'twixt bar and bar; and then at times 
Long reaches of green level, where one cow, 
Feeding among her fellows that feed on, 
Lifts her slow neck, and gazes for the sound. 
There are six of us: I that write away; 
Hunt reads Dumas, hard-lipped, with heavy jowl 
And brows hung low, and the long ends of hair 
Standing out limp. A grazier at one end 
(Thank luck not my end!) has blocked out the air, 
And sits in heavy consciousness of guilt. 
The poor young muff who's face to face with me 
Is pitiful in loose collar and black tie, 
His latchet-button shaking as we go. 
There are flowers by me, half upon my knees, 
Owned by a dame who's fair in soul, no doubt: 
The wind that beats among us carries off 
Their scent, but still I have them for my eye. 
Fields mown in ridges; and close garden-crops 
Of the earth's increase; and a constant sky 
Still with clear trees that let you see the wind; 
And snatches of the engine-smoke, by fits 
Tossed to the wind against the landscape, where 
Rooks stooping heave their wings upon the day. 
Brick walls we pass between, passed so at once 
That for the suddenness I cannot know 
Or what, or where begun, or where at end. 
Sometimes a Station in grey quiet; whence, 
With a short gathered champing of pent sound, 
We are let out upon the air again. 
Now nearly darkness; knees and arms and sides 
Feel the least touch, and close about the face 
A wind of noise that is along like God. 
Pauses of water soon, at intervals, 
That has the sky in it;?the reflexes 
O' the trees move towards the bank as we go by, 
Leaving the water's surface plain. I now 
Lie back and close my eyes a space; for they 
Smart from the open forwardness of thought 
Fronting the wind?? 
??I did not scribble more, 
Be certain, after this; but yawned, and read, 
And nearly dozed a little, I believe; 
Till, stretching up against the carriage-back, 
I was roused altogether, and looked out 
To where, upon the desolate verge of light, 
Yearned, pale and vast, the iron-coloured sea.