I Down the green plush lane, at the forward end of the car, There are seven Iowa farmers' tired old wives With their faces set toward the perfumed orange groves For a lyrical end to their prosy, cumbered lives; And all day long with their red, work-twisted hands On their black silk laps they idle, they rest, they play; They badger the grime-gray brakemen, make new friends -- "Say, Pa, this gentleman @3here's@1 from Ioway!" II While the bored, late breakfast crowd in the diner fumed And a thin man snarled that his coffee wasn't hot, I saw them carry her by with clumsy haste -- A silent, sagging shape on a sagging cot, And all day long there seeps through my noisy car, Through the tight-shut, shining door of the drawing-room, The sense of a breathless race with hours and miles . . . The sense of doom, of imminent, hovering doom; And whenever the loose-limbed brakeman hurtles through, Frolicsome-shy as a sidling setter pup, The mother's jerking face at the crack of the door -- "Are we late? How late? Do you think we can make it up?" III There's an old young soldier raptly hurrying home With a line of shining deeds across his coat, But the scar far back in his aching-tired eyes Is a deeper scar than the one along his throat, And all day long I am watching him realize . . . That the show is done; he has missed his cue; he's late; The bands are stilled and the WELCOME signs are down, And his shining deeds -- @3his@1 war -- is out of date! IV A big, thick-wristed man in the section across; The delicate, fresh-dressed woman by his side With the look in her face of a stale, warmed-over dream, Is a bride, a pitiful, tardy, Autumn bride, And all day long, sitting still in her green plush seat, She escapes, she flees, she hides . . . till the train's harsh tune Summons her back to the touch of his thick, cold hand, To bring her November heart to the feast of June. . . . . . . . . Can they ever learn to rest in their orange groves? Is the engine aware of the drawing-room's tragic need? -- And the soldier's eyes -- and the dream that stood too long? I am tense with the urge for a greater, kinder speed; And all day long, till the desert sun slides down And the farmers' wives are noisy with plate and cup, Now soft, now shrill, four-keyed, it pierces through . . . "Are we late? How late? Do you think we can make it up?" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOUND WANTING by EMILY DICKINSON SONNET: THE HUMAN SEASONS by JOHN KEATS THE TRANSLATION by MARK VAN DOREN IN LIGHTER VEIN by ELIZABETH KEMPER ADAMS THE SAILOR; A ROMAIC BALLAD by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM |