Au Nord au sud
Zénith Nadir
Et les grands cris de l'Est
L'Océan se gonfle à l'Ouest
La Tour à la Roue
S'adresse

by Guillaume Apollinaire.

On A Projected Journey

To gratify his people's wish
See G--e at length prepare-
He's setting out for Hanover-
We've often wish'd him there.


R. et R.

by Charles Lamb.

A Lover's Journey

When a lover hies abroad
Looking for his love,
Azrael smiling sheathes his sword,
Heaven smiles above.
Earth and sea
His servants be,
And to lesser compass round,
That his love be sooner found!

by Rudyard Kipling.

The Prosperous Voyage

THE mist is fast clearing.
And radiant is heaven,
Whilst AEolus loosens
Our anguish-fraught bond.
The zephyrs are sighing,
Alert is the sailor.
Quick! nimbly be plying!
The billows are riven,
The distance approaches;
I see land beyond!

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

When My Soul Longed - The Beginning Of His Journey

That day when my soul longed for the place of assembly,
Yet a dread of departure seized hold of me,
He, great in counsel, prepared for me ways for setting forth,
And I found His name in my heart a sustainment.
Therefore I bow down to Him at every stage;
And at every step I thank Him.

Translated by Nina Salaman

by Yehudah HaLevi.

Thirteen as twelve my Murray always took--
He was a publisher. The new Police
Have neater ways of bringing men to book,
So Juan found himself before J.P.'s
Accused of storming through that placed nook
At practically any pace you please.
The Dogberry, and the Waterbury, made
It fifty mile--five pounds. And Juan paid!

by Rudyard Kipling.

Our Journey Had Advanced;

Our journey had advanced;
Our feet were almost come
To that odd fork in Being's road,
Eternity by term.

Our pace took sudden awe,
Our feet reluctant led.
Before were cities, but between,
The forest of the dead.

Retreat was out of hope,--
Behind, a sealed route,
Eternity's white flag before,
And God at every gate.

by Emily Dickinson.

L'Invitation Au Voyage

Mon enfant, ma soeur,
Songe à la douceur,
D'aller là-bas, vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir,
Au pays qui te ressemble!
Les soleils mouillés,
De ces ciels brouillés,
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes,
Si mystérieux,
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.

by Charles Baudelaire.

Au Détour De La Rue Étroite

Au détour de la rue étroite
S'ouvre l'ombre et la cour
Où Diane en plâtre, et qui court
N'a que la jambe droite.

Là-bas sur sa flûte de Pan,
Un Ossalois nous lance
Ces airs aigus comme une lance
Qui percent le tympan,

Ô Faustine, et je vois se tendre
L'arc pur de ton sourcil ;
Telle une autre Diane, si
Le trait n'était si tendre.

by Paul-Jean Toulet.

Le Grand Voyage

Cette fois mon cœur, c’est le grand voyage.
Nous ne savons pas quand nous reviendrons.
Serons-nous plus fiers, plus fous ou plus sages ?
Qu’importe, mon cœur, puisque nous partons !

Avant de partir, mets dans ton bagage
Les plus beaux désirs que nous offrirons
Ne regrette rien, car d’autres visages
Et d’autres amours nous consoleront.

Cette fois, mon cœur, c’est le grand voyage.

by Jean de La Ville de Mirmont.

What is my mast ? A pen.
What are my sails ? Ten crescent moons.
What is my sea? A bottle of ink.
Where do I go? To heaven again.
What do I eat ? The amaranth flower,
While the winds through the jungles think old tunes.
I eat that flower with ivory spoons
While the winds through the jungles play old tunes;
The songs the angels used to sing
When heaven was not old autumn, but spring
The bold, old songs of heaven and spring.

by Vachel Lindsay.

The living is a passing traveler;
The dead, a man come home.
One brief journey betwixt heaven and earth,
Then, alas! we are the same old dust of ten thousand ages.
The rabbit in the moon pounds the medicine in vain;
Fu-sang, the tree of immortality, has crumbled to kindling wood.
Man dies, his white bones are dumb without a word
When the green pines feel the coming of the spring.
Looking back, I sigh; looking before, I sigh again.
What is there to prize in the life's vaporous glory?

by Li Po.

When Day Is Done

If the day is done,
if birds sing no more,
if the wind has flagged tired,
then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me,
even as thou hast wrapt the earth with the coverlet of sleep
and tenderly closed the petals of the drooping lotus at dusk.

From the traveler,
whose sack of provisions is empty before the voyage is ended,
whose garment is torn and dust-laden,
whose strength is exhausted,
remove shame and poverty,
and renew his life like a flower under the cover of thy kindly night.

by Rabindranath Tagore.

Partir avant le jour, à tâtons, sans voir goutte,
Sans songer seulement à demander sa route ;
Aller de chute en chute, et, se traînant ainsi,
Faire un tiers du chemin jusqu'à près de midi ;
Voir sur sa tête alors s'amasser les nuages,
Dans un sable mouvant précipiter ses pas,
Courir, en essuyant orages sur orages,
Vers un but incertain où l'on n'arrive pas ;
Détrempé vers le soir, chercher une retraite,
Arriver haletant, se coucher, s'endormir :
On appelle cela naître, vivre et mourir.
La volonté de Dieu soit faite !

by Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian.

Let me look always forward. Never back.
Was I not formed for progress? Otherwise
With onward pointing feet and searching eyes
Would God have set me squarely on the track
Up which we all must labour with life's pack?
Yonder the goal of all this travel lies.
What matters it, if yesterday the skies
With light were golden, or with clouds were black?
I would not lose to-morrow's glow of dawn
By peering backward after sun's long set.
New hope is fairer than an old regret;
Let me pursue my journey and press on-
Nor tearful eyed, stand ever in one spot,
A briny statue like the wife of Lot.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

Impression De Voyage

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky
Burned like a heated opal through the air;
We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.
From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye
Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,
Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak,
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.
The flapping of the sail against the mast,
The ripple of the water on the side,
The ripple of girls' laughter at the stern,
The only sounds:- when 'gan the West to burn,
And a red sun upon the seas to ride,
I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

by Oscar Wilde.

Dawn On The Night-Journey

TILL dawn the wind drove round me. It is past
And still, and leaves the air to lisp of bird,
And to the quiet that is almost heard
Of the new-risen day, as yet bound fast
In the first warmth of sunrise. When the last
Of the sun's hours to-day shall be fulfilled,
There shall another breath of time be stilled
For me, which now is to my senses cast
As much beyond me as eternity,
Unknown, kept secret. On the newborn air
The moth quivers in silence. It is vast,
Yea, even beyond the hills upon the sea,
The day whose end shall give this hour as sheer
As chaos to the irrevocable Past.

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 Xiv. Fly, Some Kind Haringer, To Grasmere-Dale

FLY, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!
Say that we come, and come by this day's light;
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,
But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,
And Rover whine, as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:
And from that Infant's face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child--
That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,
While we have wandered over wood and wild--
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.

by William Wordsworth.

Sonnet 27: Weary With Toil, I Haste Me To My Bed

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear respose for limbs with travel tirèd;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expirèd.
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see;
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which like a jewel, hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.

by William Shakespeare.

Les trains rêvent dans la rosée, au fond des gares...
Ils rêvent des heures, puis grincent et démarrent...
J'aime ces trains mouillés qui passent dans les champs,
Ces longs convois de marchandises bruissant,
Qui pour la pluie ont mis leurs lourds manteaux de bâches,
Ou qui forment la nuit entière dans les garages...
Et les trains de bestiaux où beuglent mornement
Des bêtes qui se plaignent au village natal...
Tous ces rands wagons gris, hermétiques et clos,
Dont le silence luit sous l'averse automnale,
Avec leurs inscriptions effacées, leurs repos
Infinis, leurs nuits abandonnées, leurs vitres pâles...

by Henry Bataille.

Sonnet 50: How Heavy Do I Journey On The Way

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that case and that repose to say,
"Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!"
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind:
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.

by William Shakespeare.

IF to her eyes' bright lustre I were blind,
No longer would they serve my life to gild.
The will of destiny must be fulfilid,--
This knowing, I withdrew with sadden'd mind.
No further happiness I now could find:
The former longings of my heart were still'd;
I sought her looks alone, whereon to build
My joy in life,--all else was left behind.
Wine's genial glow, the festal banquet gay,
Ease, sleep, and friends, all wonted pleasures glad
I spurn'd, till little there remain'd to prove.
Now calmly through the world I wend my way:
That which I crave may everywhere be had,
With me I bring the one thing needful--love.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Composed After A Journey Across The Hambleton Hills, Yorkshire

DARK and more dark the shades of evening fell;
The wished-for point was reached--but at an hour
When little could be gained from that rich dower
Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.
Yet did the glowing west with marvellous power
Salute us; there stood Indian citadel,
Temple of Greece, and minster with its tower
Substantially expressed--a place for bell
Or clock to toll from! Many a tempting isle,
With groves that never were imagined, lay
'Mid seas how steadfast! objects all for the eye
Of silent rapture; but we felt the while
We should forget them; they are of the sky,
And from our earthly memory fade away.

by William Wordsworth.

Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 Xii. Sonnet Composed At ---- Castle

DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
And love of havoc, (for with such disease
Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word
To level with the dust a noble horde,
A brotherhood of venerable Trees,
Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,
Beggared and outraged!--Many hearts deplored
The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain
The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

by William Wordsworth.

Sonnet Xlix. J.R.L. (On His Homeward Voyage) 1.

BACK from old England, in whose courts he stood
Foremost to knit by act and word the band
Between the daughter and the mother-land
In all by either prized of truth and good,
We welcome to a fellowship renewed
His country's friend and ours. The master-hand
That held the pen and lyre could still command
Affairs of state, controlling league and feud.
So, helped, not hindered, may his later strains
Flow deeper, richer, though by sorrow toned;
And life by losses grow as once by gains;
And age hold fast the best that youth has owned.
But ah, hurt not with touch too heavy, Time,
The light-winged wisdom of his gayer rhyme.

by Christopher Pearse Cranch.

I Write Of That Journey

I remember how my mother would hold me.
I would look up at her sometimes and see her weep.

I understand now what was happening.
Love so strong a force
it broke the
cage,

and she disappeared from everything
for a blessed
moment.

All actions have evolved
From the taste of flight;
the hope of freedom
moves our cells
and limbs.

Unable to live on the earth,
Mira ventured out alone in the sky -
I write of that journey
of becoming as
free as
God.

Don't forget love;
it will bring all the madness you need
to unfurl yourself across
the universe.

by Mirabai.

Hard Is The Journey

Gold vessels of fine wines,
thousands a gallon,
Jade dishes of rare meats,
costing more thousands,

I lay my chopsticks down,
no more can banquet,
I draw my sword and stare
wildly about me:

Ice bars my way to cross
the Yellow River,
Snows from dark skies to climb
the T'ai-hang mountains!

At peace I drop a hook
into a brooklet,
At once I'm in a boat
but sailing sunward...

(Hard is the journey,
Hard is the journey,
So many turnings,
And now where am I?)

So when a breeze breaks waves,
bringing fair weather,
I set a cloud for sails,
cross the blue oceans!

by Li Po.

Sonnet L. J.R.L. (On His Homeward Voyage) 2.

O SHIP that bears him to his native shore,
Beneath whose keel the seething ocean heaves,
Bring safe our poet with his garnered sheaves
Of Life's ripe autumn poesy and lore!
Though round the old homestead where we met of yore
In the unsaddened days the southwind grieves
Through his green elms, and all their summer leaves
Seem whispering of the scenes that come no more,
Yet may the years that brought him honors due
Where Europe's best and wisest learned his worth,
Yield hope and strength to reach horizons new
In the broad Western land that gave him birth;
Nor bar his vision to a sunlit view
Beyond the enshrouding mysteries of earth.

by Christopher Pearse Cranch.

Sonnet I. Written At Tinemouth, Northumberland, After A Tempestuous Voyage.

As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast
Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide,
That laves the pebbled shore; and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the grey battlement,
And yon forsaken tow'r, that time has rent.
The lifted oar far off with silver gleam
Is touch'd and the hush'd billows seem to sleep.
Sooth'd by the scene, ev'n thus on sorrow's breast
A kindred stillness steals and bids her rest;
Whilst the weak winds that sigh along the deep,
The ear, like lullabies of pity, meet,
Singing the saddest notes of farewell sweet.

by William Lisle Bowles.

I. Written At Tinemouth, Northumberland, After A Tempestuous Voyage.

AS slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast
Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide,
That laves the pebbled shore; and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the grey battlement,
And yon forsaken tow'r, that time has rent.
The lifted oar far off with silver gleam
Is touch'd and the hush'd billows seem to sleep.
Sooth'd by the scene, ev'n thus on sorrow's breast
A kindred stillness steals and bids her rest;
Whilst the weak winds that sigh along the deep,
The ear, like lullabies of pity, meet,
Singing the saddest notes of farewell sweet.

by William Lisle Bowles.

Si Celui Qui S'Apprête À Faire Un Long Voyage

Si celui qui s'apprête à faire un long voyage
Doit croire celui-là qui a jà voyagé,
Et qui des flots marins longuement outragé,
Tout moite et dégouttant s'est sauvé du naufrage,

Tu me croiras, Ronsard, bien que tu sois plus sage,
Et quelque peu encor (ce crois-je) plus âgé,
Puisque j'ai devant toi en cette mer nagé,
Et que déjà ma nef découvre le rivage.

Donques je t'avertis que cette mer romaine,
De dangereux écueils et de bancs toute pleine,
Cache mille périls, et qu'ici bien souvent,

Trompé du chant pipeur des monstres de Sicile,
Pour Charybde éviter tu tomberas en Scylle,
Si tu ne sais nager d'une voile à tout vent.

by Joachim du Bellay.

Heureux Qui, Comme Ulysse, A Fait Un Beau Voyage

Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage,
Ou comme cestuy-là qui conquit la toison,
Et puis est retourné, plein d'usage et raison,
Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son âge !

Quand reverrai-je, hélas, de mon petit village
Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison
Reverrai-je le clos de ma pauvre maison,
Qui m'est une province, et beaucoup davantage ?

Plus me plaît le séjour qu'ont bâti mes aïeux,
Que des palais Romains le front audacieux,
Plus que le marbre dur me plaît l'ardoise fine :

Plus mon Loir gaulois, que le Tibre latin,
Plus mon petit Liré, que le mont Palatin,
Et plus que l'air marin la doulceur angevine.

by Joachim du Bellay.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.

by William Shakespeare.

Sonnet Xvii. Composed On A Journey Homeward; The Author Having Received Intelligence Of The Birth Of A Son

Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll
Which makes the present (while the flash dost last)
Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past,
Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul
Self-questioned in her sleep: and some have said
We lived ere yet this fleshy robe we wore.
O my sweet Baby! when I reach my door,
If heavy looks should tell me, thou wert dead
(As sometimes, thro' excess of hope, I fear),
I think, that I should struggle to believe
Thou were a Spirit, to this nether sphere
Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve
Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve,
While we wept idly o'er thy little bier.

Sept. 20, 1796.

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

Blackcurrant River

Blackcurrant river rolls unknown in strange valleys;
the voices of a hundred rooks go with it,
the true benevolent voice of angles:
with the wide movements of the fir woods
when several winds sweep down.

Everything flows with [the] horrible mysteries of ancient landscapes;
of strongholds visited, of large estates:
it is along these banks that you can hear
the dead passions of errant knights:
but how the wind is wholesome!

Let the traveler look through these clerestories:
he will journey on more bravely.
Forest soldiers whom the Lord sends,
dear delightful rooks! Drive away from here the crafty peasant,
clinking glasses with his old stump of an arm.

by Arthur Rimbaud.

À Ma Sœur Marie, Au Retour De Son Voyage De Noces.

Ma sœur, comme oiseau qui traverse la nue,
Quand le soleil d'avril sur ses ailes a lui,
Enfant naïve hier, femme heureuse aujourd'hui,
Au doux nid paternel te voici revenue.

L'homme aimé que ton cœur s'est donné pour appui
T'avait bien loin de nous trop longtemps retenue ;
Il te ramène enfin : sois donc la bienvenue !
Au cercle du foyer qui s'ouvre devant lui.

Approche ; asseyons-nous autour du feu qui tremble ;
Nos âmes et nos mains se mêleront ensemble :
Quand il est partagé le bonheur est plus grand.

Puis, en te souhaitant des jours exempts de larmes,
Nous nous demanderons lequel a plus de charmes,
L'ange qu'on nous ravit ou l'ange qu'on nous rend !
(1877)

by Louis Honoré Fréchette.

As at times a moonbeam pierces
Through the thickest cloudy rack,
So to me, through days so dreary,
One bright image struggles back.

Seated all on deck, we floated
Down the Rhine's majestic stream;
On its borders, summer-laden,
Slept the peaceful evening-gleam.

Brooding, at the feet I laid me
Of a fair and gentle one,
On whose placid, pallid features
Played the ruddy-golden sun.

Lutes were ringing, youth« were singing,
Swelled my heart with feeling strange;
Bluer grew the heaven above us,
Wider grew the spirit's range.

Fairy-like beside us flitted
Rock and ruin, wood and plain ;
And I gazed on all reflected
In my loved one's eyes again.

by Heinrich Heine.

None Is Travelling

None is travelling
Here along this way but I,
This autumn evening.

The first day of the year:
thoughts come - and there is loneliness;
the autumn dusk is here.

An old pond
A frog jumps in -
Splash!

Lightening -
Heron's cry
Stabs the darkness

Clouds come from time to time -
and bring to men a chance to rest
from looking at the moon.

In the cicada's cry
There's no sign that can foretell
How soon it must die.

Poverty's child -
he starts to grind the rice,
and gazes at the moon.

Won't you come and see
loneliness? Just one leaf
from the kiri tree.

Temple bells die out.
The fragrant blossoms remain.
A perfect evening!

by Matsuo Basho.

Travelling Bohemians

The prophetic tribe of the ardent eyes
Yesterday they took the road, holding their babies
On their backs, delivering to fierce appetites
The always ready treasure of pendulous breasts.

The men stick their feet out, waving their guns
Alongside the caravan where they tremble together,
Scanning the sky their eyes are weighted down
In mourning for absent chimeras.

At the bottom of his sandy retreat, a cricket
Watched passing, redoubles his song,
Cybele, who loves, adds more flower,

Makes fountains out of rock and blossoms from desert
Opening up before these travelers in a yawn—
A familiar empire, the inscrutable future.


Translated by William A. Sigler


Submitted by Ryan McGuire

by Charles Baudelaire.