Listen to the motion of the speeding train —
our compartment fills with rattles in the night —
it seems that we are falling from a shattered height,
and the fields are crushed beneath a pouring rain.
We’ve reached the forking of our path again,
my dear; to another this decision’s surely trite.
But the road they know is far behind, not right
or left, and their losses never did outweigh my gain.
I have no interest in recounting aches and pain,
would rather wander in the gardens of delight;
and if memory paints some darknesses as over-bright,
it is still my choice to take the rightmost lane.
The train has slowed, the fields are full of grain;
and the wind is dancing lightly through a spinning weathervane.