Travel poems
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The Mother's Return
© William Wordsworth
A MONTH, sweet Little-ones, is past
Since your dear Mother went away,--
And she tomorrow will return;
Tomorrow is the happy day.
Moonset
© Sir Henry Newbolt
Past seven o'clock: time to be gone;
Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up:
A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup,
Down to the door, and there is Coachman John.
Ma Boheme
© Arthur Rimbaud
And I listened to them, sitting on the road-sides on those pleasant
September evenings while I felt drops of dew on my forehead like
vigorous wine;
The Merchant
© Rabindranath Tagore
Imagine, mother, that you are to stay at home and I am to travel
into strange lands.
The King Of Denmark's Sons
© William Morris
In Denmark gone is many a year,
So fair upriseth the rim of the sun,
Two sons of Gorm the King there were,
So grey is the sea when day is done.
Pilgrims To The East
© Katharine Tynan
This Christmas-time my son will come,
God willing, to the Holy Place
And by the manger's little room
Will bend his knee and bow his face,
Eager, with shepherds and with kings,
For to behold the Holy Things.
The Lover Of The Queen Of Sheba
© Arthur Symons
To SAROJINI NAIDU
A YOUTH OF SHEBA. THE QUEEN OF SHEBA.
THE HERALD. KING SOLOMON.
Threnodia Augustalis: Overture - A Solemn Dirge
© Oliver Goldsmith
ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe;
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'Tis ours to weep the want below!
The Waggoner - Canto Second
© William Wordsworth
IF Wytheburn's modest House of prayer,
As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,
Had, with its belfry's humble stock,
A little pair that hang in air,
The Miracle
© Virna Sheard
Up from the templed city of the Jews,
The road ran straight and white
To Jericho, the City of the Palms,
The City of Delight.
Ultima Thule: The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Babyhood
© James Whitcomb Riley
Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger:
Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray;
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger
Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away.
Don Juan: Canto The Fifth
© George Gordon Byron
When amatory poets sing their loves
In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
Castro Alves From Brazil
© Pablo Neruda
Castro Alves from Brazil, for whom did you sing?
Did you sing for the flower? For the water
whose beauty whispered words to the stones?
Did you sing to the eyes, to the torn profile
of the woman you once loved? For the spring?
Chorus from 'Atalanta'
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,
The mother of months in meadow or plain
Two Hundred Years Ago
© William Henry Drummond
But He watch dem, le bon Dieu, for He's got
some work to do,
An He won't trus' ev'ry body, no siree!
Only full blood Canadien, lak Marquette an'
Hennepin,
An' w'at you t'ink of Louis Verandrye?
Nora: A Serenade
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
AH, Nora, my Nora, the light fades away,
While Night like a spirit steals up o'er the hills;
