Travel and Horizons

The Road goes ever on and on

 

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

 

And the stately ships go on

 

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink

 

Florence she found perfectly sweet, Naples a dream, but very whiffy. In Rome one had simply to sit still and feel.

Come, my friends. ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

 

Little by little, one travels far. J. R. R.

All that is gold does not glitter; not all those that wander are lost. J. R. R.

 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough

 

I am become a name;

 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay.

 

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales.

 

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

 

A man travels the world in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.

 

Railway termini. They are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them, alas! we return.

 

I rang them up while touring Timbucktoo, Those bosom chums to whom you’re known as “Who?”

 

We were the first that found that famous country: We marched by a king’s name: we crossed the sierras: Unknown hardships we suffered: hunger.

 

Wayfarer, there is no way, you make the way as you go. As you go, you make the way and stopping to look behind, you see the path that your feet will never travel again. Wayfarer, there is no way— only foam trails in the sea.

 

Here at the quiet limit of the world.

 

And o’er the hills and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Through all the world she followed him.

 

For I dipp’d into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain’d a ghastly dew From the nations’ airy navies grappling in the central blue.

 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet ’tis early morn: Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn.

 

The deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows, for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.