We are upon the Scheldt. We know we move <br />Because there is a floating at our eyes <br />Whatso they seek; and because all the things <br />Which on our outset were distinct and large <br />Are smaller and much weaker and quite grey, <br />And at last gone from us. No motion else. <br />We are upon the road. The thin swift moon <br />Runs with the running clouds that are the sky, <br />And with the running water runs—at whiles <br />Weak 'neath the film and heavy growth of reeds. <br />The country swims with motion. Time itself <br />Is consciously beside us, and perceived. <br />Our speed is such the sparks our engine leaves <br />Are burning after the whole train has passed. <br />The darkness is a tumult. We tear on, <br />The roll behind us and the cry before, <br />Constantly, in a lull of intense speed <br />And thunder. Any other sound is known <br />Merely by sight. The shrubs, the trees your eye <br />Scans for their growth, are far along in haze. <br />The sky has lost its clouds, and lies away <br />Oppressively at calm: the moon has failed: <br />Our speed has set the wind against us. Now <br />Our engine's heat is fiercer, and flings up <br />Great glares alongside. Wind and steam and speed <br />And clamour and the night. We are in Ghent.<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/antwerp-to-ghent/
