* * *
What's the railroad to me? I never go to see Where it ends. It fills a few hollows, And makes banks for the swallows, It sets the sand a-blowing, And the blackberries a-growing.
Henry Thoreau’s other poems:
- Let Such Pure Hate Still Underprop
- Smoke
- On Fields Oer Which the Reaper’s Hand Has Passd
- Indeed Indeed, I Cannot Tell
- Pray to What Earth Does This Sweet Cold Belong
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