I
\nThis is the night mail crossing the Border,
\nBringing the cheque and the postal order,<\/p>\n
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
\nThe shop at the corner, the girl next door.<\/p>\n
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
\nThe gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.<\/p>\n
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
\nShovelling white steam over her shoulder,<\/p>\n
Snorting noisily as she passes
\nSilent miles of wind-bent grasses.<\/p>\n
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
\nStare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.<\/p>\n
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
\nThey slumber on with paws across.<\/p>\n
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
\nBut a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.<\/p>\n
II
\nDawn freshens, Her climb is done.
\nDown towards Glasgow she descends,
\nTowards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
\nTowards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
\nSet on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
\nAll Scotland waits for her:
\nIn dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
\nMen long for news.<\/p>\n
III
\nLetters of thanks, letters from banks,
\nLetters of joy from girl and boy,
\nReceipted bills and invitations
\nTo inspect new stock or to visit relations,
\nAnd applications for situations,
\nAnd timid lovers’ declarations,
\nAnd gossip, gossip from all the nations,
\nNews circumstantial, news financial,
\nLetters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
\nLetters with faces scrawled on the margin,
\nLetters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
\nLetters to Scotland from the South of France,
\nLetters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
\nWritten on paper of every hue,
\nThe pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
\nThe chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
\nThe cold and official and the heart’s outpouring,
\nClever, stupid, short and long,
\nThe typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.<\/p>\n
IV
\nThousands are still asleep,
\nDreaming of terrifying monsters
\nOr of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston’s or Crawford’s:<\/p>\n
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
\nAsleep in granite Aberdeen,
\nThey continue their dreams,
\nBut shall wake soon and hope for letters,
\nAnd none will hear the postman’s knock
\nWithout a quickening of the heart,
\nFor who can bear to feel himself forgotten?<\/p>\n
I<\/p>\n
Aquest \u00e9s el correu nocturn que creua la frontera
\ni porta xecs i ordres postals a la cartera,<\/p>\n
cartes per al ric, cartes per la pobre de necessitat,
\nper al botiguer de la cantonada i la noia del ve\u00efnat.<\/p>\n
S’atura a Beattock, la parada habitual:
\nel pendent li \u00e9s contrari, per\u00f2 hi arriba puntual.<\/p>\n
Passen plantes banquinoses i erms plens de roques,
\ni ell empeny sobre l’espatlla les blanques foques.<\/p>\n
I esbufega sorollosament mentre passa
\nsobre milles silencioses d’herba grassa.<\/p>\n
Els ocells es giren mentre el tren s’acosta
\ni es miren els vagons sense rostre des de la brosta.<\/p>\n
els gossos d’atura fan com tantes vegades:
\ndormisquegen amb les potes encreuades.<\/p>\n
A la granja, quan passa, no es desperta ning\u00fa,
\nper\u00f2 al dormitori un gerro tremola, insegur.<\/p>\n
II
\nL’alba refresca. Ja s’ha enfilat prou.
\nAvall cap a Glasgow el tren es mou
\namb estrebades de vapor i xiulets vers grues que fan clariana,
\ncap a camps plens d’aparells i forns que s’alcen a la plana
\nfosca, com gegantines peces d’escacs.
\nTot Esc\u00f2cia l’espera:
\na les fosques valls, a la vora del verd p\u00e0l\u00b7lid dels llacs,
\nels homes anhelen les not\u00edcies.<\/p>\n
III
\nLletres d’agra\u00efment, lletres dels bancs,
\nlletres alegres de la noia i el noi,
\nfactures rebudes i invitacions
\na inspeccionar bestiar o visitar relacions,
\ni sol\u00b7licituds per a situacions
\ni, dels amants, t\u00edmides declaracions
\ni xafarderies de totes les nacions,
\nnot\u00edcies circumstancials, not\u00edcies financeres,
\ncartes amb fulletons de vacances que caldria ampliar,
\ncartes ab rostres als marges que alg\u00fa va guixar,
\ncartes d’oncles, de cosins i de ties solteres,
\ncartes a Esc\u00f2cia des del sud de Fran\u00e7a,
\ncartes de condol de les Terres Altes i les Terres Baixes,
\nescrites amb el paper que hi escau:
\nel rosa, el violeta, el blanc i el blau,
\nles afectuoses, les rancoroses, les avorrides, les sensacionals,
\nles fredes i oficials i les que s\u00f3n sentimentals,
\nintel\u00b7ligents, poca-soltes, curtes i allargades,
\nles escrites a m\u00e0quina, les impreses i les plenes d’errades.<\/p>\n
IV
\nN’hi ha milers encara adormits
\nque somnien en monstres de mala fe,
\no b\u00e9 una orquestra a Cranston o a Crawford, prenent el te:
\nadormits a la gran\u00edtica Aberdeen,
\nels seus somnis van seguint,
\nper\u00f2 aviat es llevaran i esperaran les cartes, desvetllats,
\ni quan sentin el truc del carter
\nels far\u00e0 un salt el cor, tamb\u00e9.
\nPerqu\u00e8 \u00bfqui pot suportar sentir-se oblidat?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I This is the night mail crossing the Border, Bringing the cheque and the postal order, Letters for the rich, letters for the poor, The shop at the corner, the girl next door. Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb: The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time. Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder Shovelling white steam … <\/p>\n