by Edna St. Vincent Millay
The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn't a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.
All night there isn't a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.
My heart is warm with friends I make,
And better friends I'll not be knowing;
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,
No matter where it's going.
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 - 1950) (pictured) was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1923. She lived a notoriously Bohemian, bisexual lifestyle in Greenwich Village. Reference to this and additional biographical information may be found here: http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/160.
"Travel" takes the form of a traditional ballad. If the first person speaker is assumed to be the poet, the poem reveals her to be a misanthrope--one who prefers to get away and leave her "friends" behind."
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