Out Of The Window

In the middle of countries, far from hills and sea,
  Are the little places one passes by in trains
  And never stops at; where the skies extend
  Uninterrupted, and the level plains
  Stretch green and yellow and green without an end.
  And behind the glass of their Grand Express
  Folk yawn away a province through,
  With nothing to think of, nothing to do,
  Nothing even to look at--never a "view"
  In this damned wilderness.
  But I look out of the window and find
  Much to satisfy the mind.
  Mark how the furrows, formed and wheeled
  In a motion orderly and staid,
  Sweep, as we pass, across the field
  Like a drilled army on parade.
  And here's a market-garden, barred
  With stripe on stripe of varied greens ...
  Bright potatoes, flower starred,
  And the opacous colour of beans.
  Each line deliberately swings
  Towards me, till I see a straight
  Green avenue to the heart of things,
  The glimpse of a sudden opened gate
  Piercing the adverse walls of fate ...
  A moment only, and then, fast, fast,
  The gate swings to, the avenue closes;
  Fate laughs, and once more interposes
  Its barriers.
  The train has passed.