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Literature Text
Calling on the wind,
Between the flying leaves
Trailing on the breeze,
Beneath the falling rain;
Traveling across
The weather-weary ground,
The distant, haunting sound
Of a howling train.
I cool my gypsy feet
In the dripping grass;
In a far-off pass,
I hear its wild cry;
Distantly it cheers,
Charging off so free;
I smile hopelessly –
The caged bird's lullaby.
Between the flying leaves
Trailing on the breeze,
Beneath the falling rain;
Traveling across
The weather-weary ground,
The distant, haunting sound
Of a howling train.
I cool my gypsy feet
In the dripping grass;
In a far-off pass,
I hear its wild cry;
Distantly it cheers,
Charging off so free;
I smile hopelessly –
The caged bird's lullaby.
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I felt a nostalgia echo forth from this. The idyllic peace of rambling through verdant green British countryside in a locomotive puffing out a fume of white vapour. The time of journey where you could read a book and enjoy the scenery, where as now it's all rude staff, rude passengers, gadgetry and the views of bricks, steel, glass and concrete. I've never been a fan of the more modern trains, but you're poem has filled me with a desire to at least take a ride on a steam powered locomotive once again. Bravo!