 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
202
In Harness
At the sultry hour of midnight,
When we keep the door propped open
For the little boys with “flimsy”
I can hear our presses whirring.
When we keep the door propped open
For the little boys with “flimsy”
I can hear our presses whirring.
Whirling, whirring, in a rhythm,
Steady, rational, persistent;
Churning out the first edition,
To illuminate the counties.
Steady, rational, persistent;
Churning out the first edition,
To illuminate the counties.
Like the noise of many waters
Broken on a weir of tea-trays,
Is the sound—a choppy droning:
And it rather soothes one's heart-strings.
Broken on a weir of tea-trays,
Is the sound—a choppy droning:
And it rather soothes one's heart-strings.
Yet, at times, I can't help thinking
How much of my life goes whirring,
Whirling, whirring, whir, whir, whirring
With the whirring of those presses.
How much of my life goes whirring,
Whirling, whirring, whir, whir, whirring
With the whirring of those presses.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |