The train rushes past, while small sister and I,

Look on from our place in the meadow close by.

The puff of the engine, the click of the wheels,

The odor of smoke. Oh!  the way that it feels—

To stand there and watch it go rum-bl-ing past,

A-whirly the dust, and a-chugging so fast—

Is something I never could ever explain,

But always we feel it when watching a train.

And always we say: now how do you suppose

Those funny old grownups can sit there in rows,

Their noses all buried in papers so deep,

While some of them even– just think — are asleep?

If sister and I got a chance for a ride,

We would not read books or gaze ’round the inside.

We’d stare out the windows as hard as could be,

And I’ll bet there’d be nothing that we wouldn’t see

G H Berard Smith, Jr.

(from my stack)