There are no hollows any more <br />Between the mountains; the prairie floor <br />Is like a curtain with the drape <br />Of the winds' invisible shape; <br />And nowhere seen and nowhere heard <br />The sea's quiet as a sleeping bird. <br /> <br />Now we're traveling, what holds back <br />Arrival, in the very track <br />Where the urge put forth; so we stay <br />And move a thousand miles a day. <br />Time's a Fancy ringing bells <br />Whose meaning, charlatan history, tells!<br /><br />William Stanley Braithwaite<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ironic-ll-d/
