The railroad track is miles away,
. . . .And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
. . . .But I hear its whistle shrieking.
All night there isn’t a train goes by,
. . . .Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
. . . .And hear its engine steaming.
My heart is warm with friends I make,
. . . .And better friends I’ll not be knowing;
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
. . . .No matter where it’s going.
by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim