This poem by Edna St Vincent Millay (how I used to envy that name!) has certainly changed its meaning for me since I was a child; then I thought it was just a poem about lovely lovely train journeys, written by someone who knew all about itchy feet.
Travel
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'd rather take,
No matter where it's going.
