About half way between West Egg and New York

About half way between West Egg and New York
the motor-road hastily joins the railroad
and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile
 so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land.

This is a valley of ashes-a fantastic farm
where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens,
where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke
and finally, with a transcedent effort, of men
who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.

Ocassionally a line of grey cars craws along an invisible track,
gives out a ghasty creak and comes to rest,
and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up
with leaden spades and stir up an impenterable cloud
which screens their obscure operations from your sight. (Fitzgerald 27)