Cover its surface; gray roads wind about,
O’er which the farmer’s wagon clattering rolls,
And the red mail-coach. Bridges cross the streams,
Roofed, with great spider-webs of beams within.
Homesteads to homesteads flash their window-gleams,
Like friends that talk by language of the eye.
Upon its iron strips the engine shoots,
That half-tamed savage with its boiling heart
And flaming veins, its warwhoop and its plume.
Swift as the swallow skims that engine fleets