THE MOTOR-LORRIES - Wilfrid Scawen Blunt Poems


Poems » wilfrid scawen blunt » 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!