Accident (F. S. Flint) by Frank Stuart Flint

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Dear one! / you sit there / in the corner of the carriage; / and you do not know me; / and your eyes forbid.

Is it the dirt, the squalor, / the wear of human bodies, / and the dead faces of our neighbours? / These are but symbols.

You are proud; I praise you; / your mouth is set; you see beyond us; / and you see nothing.

I have the vision of your calm, cold face, / and of the black hair that waves above it; / I watch you; I love you; / I desire you.

There is a quiet here / within the thud-thud of the wheels / upon the railway.

There is a quiet here / within my heart, / but tense and tender.

This is my station.

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