Along the iron rails
Plod still with panting power,
Range still the empty trails
Hour after hour; 

Stare still where looms ahead
Each signal-skeleton,
Whose jerking arms forbid
Or bid you on, 

Whose grim lamps rule the glooms
With stringent red or green?
Forget your sunny home's
Wild-paths between 

Primrose and violet,
Your breeze-lit fields of rye...
Your golden sheaves forget?
Forget, or die.