Woodlands and prairies all rolling and green, And telephone poles that seem whizzing right by, Then acres of Indian corn can be seen, And a view of a church spire with cross in the sky. The train now must follow the course of a stream; The scene's ever changing -- now lands that are bare, With mountains so distant that cloudlike they seem, Then rocky formations that tower in the air. Onrushing with whistle so shrill through the night, With whispering voices and creaking of brake. A sunrise on peaks that are dazzling and white Is seen o'er the forests, again in a lake. A stop at each station with clanging of bell, With ever new faces, while traveling on, Each speaking a welcome or lingering farewell -- Thus briefly our lives perhaps touch -- then they're gone. |