This is the nightmail crossing the border, bringing the check and the postal order, letters for the rich letters for the poor, The Shop at the corner and the girl nextdoor, Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder Shoveling white steam over her shoulder, Snorting noisily as she pases Silent miles of wind-bant grasses Birds turn their head as she approches, Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches, Sheep-dogs cannot turn their head course; They slumber on with paws across.
Credits to memjg brizluca and adibe
