I like to see it lap the Miles

I like to see it lap the Miles— And lick the Valleys up— And stop to feed itself at Tanks— And then—prodigious step Around a Pile of Mountains— And supercilious peer In Shanties—by the sides of Roads— And then a Quarry pare To fit its Ribs And crawl between Complaining all the while In horrid—hooting stanza— Then chase itself down Hill— And neigh like Boanerges— Then—punctual as a Star Stop—docile and omnipotent At its own stable door—