From a train window, the speaker watches small New England towns slip by between Connecticut and Maine. They are not charming; they feel half-awake and a little sickly — “tubercular towns” coughing in the early light, their green surroundings like shirts they are crawling out of. The church is always there, with its neat spire, but the real life seems to happen in the vestibule, where people whisper in a dry, static-like code: “Tzz-tzz... tzz-tzz...” The speaker’s tone is wry and detached, a traveler observing these places from a distance and hearing only fragments. Even the landscape seems off — corn too flat, leaves gadding about. The repetition of “tzz-tzz” creates a restless, slightly mocking mood, as if the towns all blur into one long, gossipy hiss outside the glass. There is no warmth here, only a sharp eye and a sense of passing through.
Train Window — Summary
Small towns Crawling out of their green shirts... Tubercular towns Coughing a little in the dawn... And the church... There is always a church With its natty spire And the vestibule-- That's where they whisper: Tzz-tzz... tzz-tzz... tzz-tzz... How many codes for a wireless whisper-- And corn flatter than it should be And those chits of leaves Gadding with every wind? Small towns From Connecticut to Maine: Tzz-tzz... tzz-tzz...tzz-tzz...