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Famous Short Travel Poems. Short Travel Poetry by Famous Poets

Famous Short Travel Poems. Short Travel Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Travel short poems

See also: Best Famous Short Poems | Short Member Poems | Best Short Member Poems | Top 100 Famous Short Poems

 
by Dorothy Parker

Faute De Mieux

 Travel, trouble, music, art,
A kiss, a frock, a rhyme-
I never said they feed my heart,
But still they pass my time.


by Emily Dickinson

The longest day that God appoints

 The longest day that God appoints
Will finish with the sun.
Anguish can travel to its stake, And then it must return.


by Ben Jonson

On Banks the Usurer


XXXI.
 ? ON BANKS THE USURER.
  
BANKS feel no lameness in his knotty gout,
His monies travel for him in and out.
And though the soundest legs go every day,
He toils to be at hell, as soon as they.


by Li Po

The Cold Clear Spring At Nanyang

 A pity it is evening, yet
I do love the water of this spring
seeing how clear it is, how clean;
rays of sunset gleam on it,
lighting up its ripples, making it
one with those who travel
the roads; I turn and face
the moon; sing it a song, then
listen to the sound of the wind
amongst the pines.


by Li Po

Parting at a Wine-shop in Nan-king

 A wind, bringing willow-cotton, sweetens the shop,
And a girl from Wu, pouring wine, urges me to share it.
With my comrades of the city who are here to see me off; And as each of them drains his cup, I say to him in parting, Oh, go and ask this river running to the east If it can travel farther than a friend's love!


by Li Bai

Parting at a Wine-shop in Nan-king

A wind, bringing willow-cotton, sweetens the shop,
And a girl from Wu, pouring wine, urges me to share it.
With my comrades of the city who are here to see me off; And as each of them drains his cup, I say to him in parting, Oh, go and ask this river running to the east If it can travel farther than a friend's love!


by Edna St Vincent Millay

To The Not Impossible Him

 How shall I know, unless I go
To Cairo and Cathay,
Whether or not this blessed spot
Is blest in every way?

Now it may be, the flower for me
Is this beneath my nose:
How shall I tell, unless I smell
The Carthaginian rose?

The fabric of my faithful love
No power shall dim or ravel
Whilst I stay here,—but oh, my dear,
If I should ever travel!


by Edna St Vincent Millay

To the Not Impossible Him

 How shall I know, unless I go
To Cairo and Cathay,
Whether or not this blessed spot
Is blest in every way?

Now it may be, the flower for me
Is this beneath my nose:
How shall I tell, unless I smell
The Carthaginian rose?

The fabric of my faithful love
No power shall dim or ravel
Whilst I stay here, -- but oh, my dear,
If I should ever travel!


by Carl Sandburg

Mist Forms

 THE SHEETS of night mist travel a long valley.
I know why you came at sundown in a scarf mist.
What was it we touched asking nothing and asking all? How many times can death come and pay back what we saw? In the oath of the sod, the lips that swore, In the oath of night mist, nothing and all, A riddle is here no man tells, no woman.


by Walt Whitman

A Promise to California.

 A PROMISE to California, 
Also to the great Pastoral Plains, and for Oregon: 
Sojourning east a while longer, soon I travel toward you, to remain, to teach robust
 American
 love;

For I know very well that I and robust love belong among you, inland, and along the
 Western
 Sea; 
For These States tend inland, and toward the Western Sea—and I will also.


by Herman Melville

The Mound by the Lake

 The grass shall never forget this grave.
When homeward footing it in the sun After the weary ride by rail, The stripling soldiers passed her door, Wounded perchance, or wan and pale, She left her household work undone - Duly the wayside table spread, With evergreens shaded, to regale Each travel-spent and grateful one.
So warm her heart, childless, unwed, Who like a mother comforted.


by Paul Eluard

I Cannot be Known

 I cannot be known
Better than you know me 

Your eyes in which we sleep
We together
Have made for my man's gleam
A better fate than for the common nights 

Your eyes in which I travel
Have given to signs along the roads
A meaning alien to the earth 

In your eyes who reveal to us
Our endless solitude 

Are no longer what they thought themselves to be 

You cannot be known
Better than I know you.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch

TO DEATH

 Thou bidst me come away,
And I'll no longer stay,
Than for to shed some tears
For faults of former years;
And to repent some crimes
Done in the present times;
And next, to take a bit
Of bread, and wine with it;
To don my robes of love,
Fit for the place above;
To gird my loins about
With charity throughout;
And so to travel hence
With feet of innocence;
These done, I'll only cry,
'God, mercy!' and so die.


by Rainer Maria Rilke

Palm

 Interior of the hand.
Sole that has come to walk only on feelings.
That faces upward and in its mirror receives heavenly roads, which travel along themselves.
That has learned to walk upon water when it scoops, that walks upon wells, transfiguring every path.
That steps into other hands, changes those that are like it into a landscape: wanders and arrives within them, fills them with arrival.


by Thomas Hardy

My Spirit Will Not Haunt The Mound

 My spirit will not haunt the mound
Above my breast,
But travel, memory-possessed,
To where my tremulous being found
Life largest, best.
My phantom-footed shape will go When nightfall grays Hither and thither along the ways I and another used to know In backward days.
And there you'll find me, if a jot You still should care For me, and for my curious air; If otherwise, then I shall not, For you, be there.


by Robert Burns

463. Song—The Highland Balou

 HEE balou, my sweet wee Donald,
Picture o’ the great Clanronald;
Brawlie kens our wanton Chief
Wha gat my young Highland thief.
Leeze me on thy bonie craigie, An’ thou live, thou’ll steal a naigie, Travel the country thro’ and thro’, And bring hame a Carlisle cow.
Thro’ the Lawlands, o’er the Border, Weel, my babie, may thou furder! Herry the louns o’ the laigh Countrie, Syne to the Highlands hame to me.


by A E Housman

On Your Midnight Pallet Lying

 On your midnight pallet lying, 
Listen, and undo the door: 
Lads that waste the light in sighing 
In the dark should sigh no more; 
Night should ease a lover's sorrow; 
Therefore, since I go to-morrow, 
Pity me before.
In the land to which I travel, The far dwelling, let me say-- Once, if here the couch is gravel, In a kinder bed I lay, And the breast the darnel smothers Rested once upon another's When it was not clay.


by Regina Derieva

It Was Not Necessary To Study

 It was not necessary to study
the language
of a strange country;
anyway, it would be of no help.
It was not necessary to know where Italy or England is located; travel was obviously out of question.
It was not necessary to live among the wild beasts of Noah's ark, which had just devoured the last dove of peace, along with Noah and his virtuous family.
It was not necessary to strive for some holy land awash in milk and honey, according to rumor.


by Richard Brautigan

To England

 There are no postage stamps that send letters
back to England three centuries ago,
no postage stamps that make letters
travel back until the grave hasn't been dug yet,
and John Donne stands looking out the window,
it is just beginning to rain this April morning,
and the birds are falling into the trees
like chess pieces into an unplayed game,
and John Donne sees the postman coming up the street,
the postman walks very carefully because his cane
is made of glass.


by George Herbert

Church Music

 Sweetest of sweets, I thank you: when displeasure
Did through my body wound my mind,
You took me thence, and in your house of pleasure
A dainty lodging me assigned.
Now I in you without a body move, Rising and falling with your wings: We both together sweetly live and love, Yet say sometimes, "God help poor Kings".
Comfort, I'll die; for if you post from me Sure I shall do so, and much more: But if I travel in your company, You know the way to heaven's door.


by Thomas Hardy

The Sun On The Bookcase

 Once more the cauldron of the sun 
Smears the bookcase with winy red, 
And here my page is, and there my bed, 
And the apple-tree shadows travel along.
Soon their intangible track will be run, And dusk grow strong And they have fled.
Yes: now the boiling ball is gone, And I have wasted another day.
.
.
.
But wasted--wasted, do I say? Is it a waste to have imagined one Beyond the hills there, who, anon, My great deeds done, Will be mine alway?