Weaving in streaks of green and gray,
The warp and woof of bush and clay,
While steam and smoke and dust behind
Form mottled clouds in the tortured wind.
Through the cut[313] and into the vale—
Across the trestle that spans the swale;
There the willows swirl, and the rank weeds sway,
And the heron starts with a shriek away[314]—
Blown from her course—a shrill refrain,
’Mid the whirling gusts of the flying train.