These waters decorate no map with pomp
Nor form the civilized concern of valleys,
But only as an adjunct to the traveler’s taste,
One passage to the suburbs of Manhattan’s fringe
Or all the way, a silver thread between
New York and Buffalo and the expansive view
Of Middle Wests and Wests whose large unknown
Frightens the traveler on his questioned search.
Degrees of decoration help confuse
The passive mind, hugging the window-pane;
Even the commuters steadily enchant
Their eyes with mountains, the surface change
Of spilled gulls wheeling on the chaste surprise
Of afternoons whose valleys lift into the sun
Gnarled branches of this mammoth, fogged tableau
Or the tempting secret of the undertow.
All wander on the strange electric coast
Of life’s suspension; near the covert truth
Of each self riding on the sensuous train,
No one is nearer to the journey’s end
By this odd vagueness which infests the will,
And damns the memory for the landscape’s now:
Shielding his eyes from the porter’s sun
Even the businessman dreams a child.
Somehow, inside the cocktail car, the drinks
Are downed, and the talk revolves on nothing.
The valley colors to a Chinese print
At six o’clock or soon, and the weather seems
Half snow, half evening of remembered Spring:
Arrival threatens; then, the tragic fuss
Of a leather brief-case on the night express
Means poems to the poet, and to someone, business.
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