This poem written by W.H. Auden in the thirties brings back memories of the day of the train, and also in stanza three another activity that has in fact disappeared into memory, and that is letter writing. The letters we used to write with pen and ink. I was never very good at it, and in fact much prefer email, but you have to admit getting a letter on paper, written in ink, and sent in a stamped envelope means something a whole lot different. You were receiving something personal, it felt that way, and in some romantic instances it even smelled nice. Email can't do that.
Anyways, I miss those days, I suppose because it is part of my past. You understand.
|by W.H. Auden (1907 - 1973)|
This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Snorting noisily as she passes
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
Dawn freshens. Her climb is done.
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Thousands are still asleep