the woods, through the corn, through the hay,
through the chalk, through the mould, through the clay, through the
rock, among objects close at hand and almost in the grasp, ever flying
from the traveller, and a deceitful distance ever moving slowly within
him: like as in the track of the remorseless monster, Death!

Through the hollow, on the height, by the heath, by the orchard, by the
park, by the garden, over the canal, across the river, where the sheep
are feeding, where the mill is going, where the barge is floating, where
the dead are lying, where the factory is smoking, where the stream is
running, where the village clusters, where the great cathedral rises,
where the bleak moor lies, and the wild breeze smooths or ruffles it at
its inconstant will; away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, and
no trace to leave behind but dust and vapour: like as in the track of
the remorseless monster, Death!

Breasting the wind and light, the shower and sunshine, away, and still
away, it rolls and roars, fierce and rapid, smooth and certain, and
great works and massive bridges crossing up above, fall like a beam of
shadow an inch broad, upon the eye, and then are lost. Away, and still
away, onward and onward ever: glimpses of cottage-homes, of houses,
mansions, rich estates, of husbandry and handicraft, of people, of old
roads and paths that look deserted, small, and insignificant as they are
left behind: and so they do, and what else is there but such glimpses,
in the track of the indomitable monster, Death!

Away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, plunging down into the
earth again, and working on in such a storm of energy and perseverance,
that amidst the darkness and whirlwind the motion seems reversed, and
to tend furiously backward, until a ray of light upon the Wet wall shows
its surface flying past like a fierce stream, Away once more into the
day, and through the day, with a shrill yell of exultation, roaring,
rattling, tearing on, spurning everything with its dark breath,
sometimes pausing for a minute where a crowd of faces are, that in a
minute more are not; sometimes lapping water greedily, and before the
spout at which it drinks' has ceased to drip upon the ground, shrieking,
roaring, rattling through the purple distance!

Louder and louder yet, it shrieks and cries as it comes tearing on
resistless to the goal: and now its way, still like the way of Death,
is strewn with ashes thickly. Everything