Scorning the wood and field it hurries on,
A thing of wrathful might.
There, from a farmer’s home a woman’s eyes,
Roused by the sudden jar and passing flare,
Follow the speeding phantom till it dies,—
An echo on the air.
Narrow the life that always has been hers
The evening brings a longing to her breast;
Deep in her heart some aspiration stirs
And mocks her soul’s unrest.