I like to see it lap the miles,
And lick the valleys up,
And stop to feed itself at tanks ;
And then, prodigious, step

Around a pile of mountains,
And, supercilious, peer
In shanties by the sides of roads ;
And then a quarry pare

To fit its sides, and crawl between,
Complaining all the while
In horrid, hooting stanza ;
Then chase itself down hill

And neigh like Boanerges ;
Then, punctual as a star,
Stop — docile and omnipotent —
At its own stable door.