Traffic

Traffic written by William Henry Davies

From "Later Days", 1925

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This life in London - what a waste
Of time and comfort, in this place;
With all its noise, and nothing seen
But what is stone or human face.
Twigs thin and bare, like sparrows3 legs.
Yet back to Nature I must go -
To see the thin, mosquito flakes
Grow into moths of plumper snow.

What is this life, if, like bad clocks.
We keep no time and are but going;
What is my breath worth when I hear
A hundred horns and whistles blowing
The rushing cars that crunch their way,
Still followed by the heavy carts;
Till I, with all my senses stunned,
Am deafened to my very thoughts.

This work is in the public domain in countries where the copyright term is the author's life plus 70 years or less.