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Night Mail
W.H. Auden
This is the Night
Mail crossing the Border,
Bring the
cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the
rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the
corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up
Beattock, a steady climb;
The gradient`s
against her, but she`s on time.
Past cotton –
grass and moorland boulder,
Shoveling white
steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily,
she passes
Silent miles of
wind – bent grasses.
Birds turn
their heads and she approaches,
Stare from bushes
at her blank – faced coaches
Sheep – dogs cannot
turn her course;
They slumber on
with paws across
In the farm,
she passes; no one wakes,
But a jug in a
bedroom gently shakes.
.....End.....