Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Tommies in the TrainD. H. Lawrence
T
The coltsfoot flowers along the railway banks
Shine flat like coin which Zeus in thanks
Showers on our lines.
In purplish elms; daffodils
Sparkle beneath; luminous hills
Beyond—but no people.
To this spring of cosmic gold
Which falls on your lap of mould!
What then are we?
Clay-colored, who roll in fatigue
As the train runs league after league
From our destiny?
Some dark hand. Peeping through the fingers,
I see a world that lingers
Behind, yet keeps pace.
Through the fingers that cover my face,
Something seems falling from place,
Seems to roll down the steep.
That falls like a meteorite
Backward in space, to alight
Never again?
That falls from reality
As we look? Or are we
Like a thunderbolt hurled?
We are lost, since we fall apart
Forever, forever depart
From each other.