Under the iron wheels that lift us,
And about the sooty scars that tunnels make,
The mountain scatters flowers from an ample garden,
(Fox-glove and hare-bell pirouetting on the giddy ledges),
And we of the summer valley
Stumble shivering along its constant snows
On feet that never climbed.
Our voices are thin in the thin air,
Our little hearts thud strangely.
We are near the nearness of its swift deaths