Pity Marjorie Wilson had to pick a lousy stretch to travel. I mean, we have some brilliant stretches of landscape too, alongside our rail-tracks. Pretty unfair comparison, this! But wonder when she made this unfortunate journey! Definitely many many years ago, perhaps during the Raj!
From the Train
By Marjorie Wilson
In England from the train you see
Green fields and peaceful cows and sheep,
And lazy farmsteads racing by
In smoke-blue valleys quiet with sheep;
And primroses and meadow sweet,
And daisies white about the way;
And you can trace the paths that wind
To where the trees are snowed with may.
In India from the stifling train
You see great rocky hills go by;
Brown miles of parched, unhappy grass,
And hot blue tracts of cloudless sky.
And slow, indifferent bullocks too,
Well laden on the dusty roads--
And then a station where you stop,
With brightly-coloured chattering crowds.
And rows and rows of tiny huts,
And young green rice, or sugar-cane,
And little dark-skinned boys and girls
Who wonder at the rumbling train.
And many scorching miles you go,
And sometimes weary days you spend
Gazing across that burning land
And dreaming of your journey's end.