Return
By ELFORD FAEGHEY
SWIFTLY the mouse-colored miles flowed under the t ires
And farms slipped away, drowned in a whirlpool of fields and hills.
Trees swarmed down slopes to lean over fences and shake their bronze heads at our speed.
The bustle of telegraph poles bound together with wires
Was a scourge to go faster; even the flying sun
We left snarled in the branches of a towering pine
To the west. The car motor hummed and roared, answering our need
For swiftness, and the cleft wind beat on our faces like splashes of wine.
We might have been fleeing the clutches of Death in an effort to borrow
One imperfect hour cast off by the spinners of time for Eternity.
Then down the last hill we sped into night
Toward the glittering stars of the city—
And a quiet dark street, home, and a welcoming light.
And farms slipped away, drowned in a whirlpool of fields and hills.
Trees swarmed down slopes to lean over fences and shake their bronze heads at our speed.
The bustle of telegraph poles bound together with wires
Was a scourge to go faster; even the flying sun
We left snarled in the branches of a towering pine
To the west. The car motor hummed and roared, answering our need
For swiftness, and the cleft wind beat on our faces like splashes of wine.
We might have been fleeing the clutches of Death in an effort to borrow
One imperfect hour cast off by the spinners of time for Eternity.
Then down the last hill we sped into night
Toward the glittering stars of the city—
And a quiet dark street, home, and a welcoming light.