THE MOTOR-LORRIES
They're coming -- twenty or thirty, an outspun throng
Of grey machines, none hard on the other's heels.
You hold your breath till all are past: it feels
As if the gathering loudness, lunged along,
And then the diminuendo thundersong
Of each grey bulk on elephantine wheels
Were sobs of one great heart, gaspèd appeals
By irresistible iteration strong;
-- Or piston-strokes whose rhythm obeys the pulse
Of some Necessity-made-visible,
Some grimly lustrous engine, errorless,
Inhuman. Six and thirty! They convulse
The countryside ... Is this an interval?
Or is it the end? O aching emptiness!
They're coming -- twenty or thirty, an outspun throng
Of grey machines, none hard on the other's heels.
You hold your breath till all are past: it feels
As if the gathering loudness, lunged along,
And then the diminuendo thundersong
Of each grey bulk on elephantine wheels
Were sobs of one great heart, gaspèd appeals
By irresistible iteration strong;
-- Or piston-strokes whose rhythm obeys the pulse
Of some Necessity-made-visible,
Some grimly lustrous engine, errorless,
Inhuman. Six and thirty! They convulse
The countryside ... Is this an interval?
Or is it the end? O aching emptiness!