THE SUN SHINES,
The coltsfoot flowers along the
railway banks
Shine
like flat coin which Jove in thanks
Strews each side the
lines.
A steeple
In purple elms,
daffodils
Sparkle
beneath; luminous hills
Beyond — and no people.
England, Oh Danaë
To this spring of cosmic
gold
That falls on
your lap of mould!
What then are we?
What are we
Clay-coloured, who roll in
fatigue
As the train
falls league by league
From our destiny?
A hand is over my face,
A cold hand. I peep between the
fingers
To watch the
world that lingers
Behind, yet keeps pace.
Always there, as I peep
Between the fingers that cover
my face!
Which then
is it that falls from its place
And rolls down the
steep?
Is it the train
That falls like
meteorite
Backward
into space, to alight
Never again?
Or is it the illusory
world
That falls
from reality
As we
look? Or are we
Like
a thunderbolt hurled?
One or another
Is lost, since we fall
apart
Endlessly, in
one motion depart
From each other.