In The Middle Of Countries, Far From Hills And Sea, Are The Little Places One Passes By In Trains And Never Stops At; Where The Skies Extend Uninterrupted, And The Level Plains Stretch Green And Yellow And Green Without An End. And Behind The Glass Of Their Grand Express Folk Yawn Away A Province Through, With Nothing To Think Of, Nothing To Do, Nothing Even To Look At--Never A "View" In This Damned Wilderness. But I Look Out Of The Window And Find Much To Satisfy The Mind. Mark How The Furrows, Formed And Wheeled In A Motion Orderly And Staid, Sweep, As We Pass, Across The Field Like A Drilled Army On Parade. And Here'S A Market-Garden, Barred With Stripe On Stripe Of Varied Greens ... Bright Potatoes, Flower Starred, And The Opacous Colour Of Beans. Each Line Deliberately Swings Towards Me, Till I See A Straight Green Avenue To The Heart Of Things, The Glimpse Of A Sudden Opened Gate Piercing The Adverse Walls Of Fate ... A Moment Only, And Then, Fast, Fast, The Gate Swings To, The Avenue Closes; Fate Laughs, And Once More Interposes Its Barriers. The Train Has Passed.