Train Through The Hill

©Anjani Kumar Tripathi/Indian Railways/Ambikapur

©Anjani Kumar Tripathi/Indian Railways/Ambikapur

©Anjani Kumar Tripathi/Indian Railways/Ambikapur

©Anjani Kumar Tripathi/Indian Railways/Ambikapur

We who have looked each other in the eyes
This journey long, and trundled with the train,
Now to our separate purposes must rise,
Becoming decent strangers once again.
The little chamber we have made our home
In which we so conveniently abode,
The complicated journey we have come,
Must be an unremembered episode.
Our common purpose made us all like friends.
How suddenly it ends!
A nod, a murmur, or a little smile,
Or often nothing, and away we file.
I hate to leave you, comrades. I will stay
To watch you drift apart and pass away.
It seems impossible to go and meet
All those strange eyes of people in the street.
But, like some proud unconsious god, the train
Gathers us up and scatters us again.

A poem written by:
HAROLD MONRO

My Sun, My Hills

I'll tell you how the sun rose,-

A ribbon at a time.

The steeples swam in amethyst,

The news like squirrels ran.



The hills untied their bonnets,

The bobolinks begun.

Then I said softly to myself,

"That must have been the sun !"


# poem shared from Emily Dickinson