Poem by Henry Thoreau

* * *

What's the railroad to me?
I never go to see
Where it ends.
It fills a few hollows,
And makes banks for the swallows,
It sets the sand a-blowing,
And the blackberries a-growing.

1. Let Such Pure Hate Still Underprop
2. On Fields Oer Which the Reaper's Hand Has Passd
3. Indeed Indeed, I Cannot Tell
4. The Inward Morning
5. Pray to What Earth Does This Sweet Cold Belong

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