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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360636" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On The Road</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">October, and eleven after dark: <br>Both mist and night. Among us in the coach <br>Packed heat on which the windows have been shut: <br>Our backs unto the motion—Hunt's and mine. <br>The last lamps of the Paris Station move <br>Slow with wide haloes past the clouded pane; <br>The road in secret empty darkness. One <br>Who sits beside me, now I turn, has pulled <br>A nightcap to his eyes. A woman here, <br>Knees to my knees—a twenty-nine-year-old— <br>Smiles at the mouth I open, seeing him: <br>I look her gravely in the jaws, and write. <br>Already while I write heads have been leaned <br>Upon the wall,—the lamp that's overhead <br>Dropping its shadow to the waist and hands. <br>Some time 'twixt sleep and wake. A dead pause then, <br>With giddy humming silence in the ears. <br>It is a Station. Eyes are opening now, <br>And mouths collecting their propriety. <br>From one of our two windows, now drawn up, <br>A lady leans, hawks a clear throat, and spits. <br>Hunt lifts his head from my cramped shoulder where <br>It has been lying—long stray hairs from it <br>Crawling upon my face and teazing me. <br>Ten minutes' law. Our feet are in the road. <br>A weak thin dimness at the sky, whose chill <br>Lies vague and hard. The mist of crimson heat <br>Hangs, a spread glare, about our engine's bulk. <br>I shall get in again, and sleep this time. <br>A heavy clamour that fills up the brain <br>Like thought grown burdensome; and in the ears <br>Speed that seems striving to o'ertake itself; <br>And in the pulses torpid life, which shakes <br>As water to a stir of wind beneath. <br>Poor Hunt, who has the toothache and can't smoke, <br>Has asked me twice for brandy. I would sleep; <br>But man proposes, and no more. I sit <br>With open eyes, and a head quite awake, <br>But which keeps catching itself lolled aside <br>And looking sentimental. In the coach, <br>If any one tries talking, the voice jolts, <br>And stuns the ear that stoops for it. <br>Amiens. <br>Half-an-hour's rest. Another shivering walk <br>Along the station, waiting for the bell. <br>Ding-dong. Now this time, by the Lord, I'll sleep. <br>I must have slept some while. Now that I wake, <br>Day is beginning in a kind of haze <br>White with grey trees. The hours have had their lapse. <br>A sky too dull for cloud. A country lain <br>In fields, where teams drag up the furrow yet; <br>Or else a level of trees, the furthest ones <br>Seen like faint clouds at the horizon's point. <br>Quite a clear distance, though in vapour. Mills <br>That turn with the dry wind. Large stacks of hay <br>Made to look bleak. Dead autumn, and no sun. <br>The smoke upon our course is borne so near <br>Along the earth, the earth appears to steam. <br>Blanc-Misseron, the last French station, passed. <br>We are in Belgium. It is just the same:— <br>Nothing to write of, and no good in verse. <br>Curse the big mounds of sand-weed! curse the miles <br>Of barren chill,—the twentyfold relays! <br>Curse every beastly Station on the road! <br>As well to write as swear. Hunt was just now <br>Making great eyes because outside the pane <br>One of the stokers passed whom he declared <br>A stunner. A vile mummy with a bag <br>Is squatted next me: a disgusting girl <br>Broad opposite. We have a poet, though, <br>Who is a gentleman, and looks like one; <br>Only he seems ashamed of writing verse, <br>And heads each new page with “Mon cher Ami.” <br>Hunt's stunner has just come into the coach, <br>And set us hard agrin from ear to ear. <br>Another Station. There's a stupid horn <br>Set wheezing. Now I should just like to know <br>—Just merely for the whim—what good that is. <br>These Stations for the most part are a kind <br>Of London coal-merchant's back premises; <br>Whitewashed, but as by hands of coal-heavers; <br>Grimy themselves, and always circled in <br>With foul coke-loads that make the nose aroint. <br>Here is a Belgian village,—no, a town <br>Moated and buttressed. Next, a water-track <br>Lying with draggled reeds in a flat slime. <br>Next, the old country, always all the same. <br>Now by Hans Hemmling and by John Van Eyck, <br>You'll find, till something's new, I write no more. <br>(4 HOURS) <br>There is small change of country; but the sun <br>Is out, and it seems shame this were not said: <br>For upon all the grass the warmth has caught; <br>And betwixt distant whitened poplar-stems <br>Makes greener darkness; and in dells of trees <br>Shows spaces of a verdure that was hid; <br>And the sky has its blue floated with white, <br>And crossed with falls of the sun's glory aslant <br>To lay upon the waters of the world; <br>And from the road men stand with shaded eyes <br>To look; and flowers in gardens have grown strong, <br>And our own shadows here within the coach <br>Are brighter; and all colour has more bloom. <br>So, after the sore torments of the route:— <br>Toothache, and headache, and the ache of wind, <br>And huddled sleep, and smarting wakefulness, <br>And night, and day, and hunger sick at food, <br>And twentyfold relays, and packages <br>To be unlocked, and passports to be found, <br>And heavy well-kept landscape;—we were glad <br>Because we entered Brussels in the sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Dante+Gabriel+Rossetti">Dante Gabriel Rossetti</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360636" data-title="On The Road de Dante Gabriel Rossetti" data-description="October, and eleven after dark: 
Both mist and night. Among us in the coach 
Packed heat on which the windows have been shut: 
Our backs unto the motion—Hunt's and mine. 
The last lamps of the Paris Station move 
Slow with wide haloes past the c..."></div>
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