Best Famous Destination Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Destination poems. This is a select list of the best famous Destination poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Destination poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of destination poems.

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• All Famous Destination Poems

Written by Walt Whitman | As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free 1 AS a strong bird on pinions free, Joyous, the amplest spaces heavenward cleaving, Such be the thought I’d think to-day of thee, America, Such be the recitative I’d bring to-day for thee. The conceits of the poets of other lands I bring thee not, Nor the compliments that have served their turn so long, Nor rhyme—nor the classics—nor perfume of foreign court, or indoor library; But an odor I’d bring to-day as from forests of pine in the north, in Maine—or breath of an Illinois prairie, With open airs of Virginia, or Georgia, or Tennessee—or from Texas uplands, or Florida’s glades, With presentment of Yellowstone’s scenes, or Yosemite; And murmuring under, pervading all, I’d bring the rustling sea-sound, That endlessly sounds from the two great seas of the world. And for thy subtler sense, subtler refrains, O Union! Preludes of intellect tallying these and thee—mind-formulas fitted for thee—real, and sane, and large as these and thee; Thou, mounting higher, diving deeper than we knew—thou transcendental Union! By thee Fact to be justified—blended with Thought; Thought of Man justified—blended with God: Through thy Idea—lo! the immortal Reality! Through thy Reality—lo! the immortal Idea! 2 Brain of the New World! what a task is thine! To formulate the Modern. . . . . Out of the peerless grandeur of the modern, Out of Thyself—comprising Science—to recast Poems, Churches, Art, (Recast—may-be discard them, end them—May-be their work is done—who knows?) By vision, hand, conception, on the background of the mighty past, the dead, To limn, with absolute faith, the mighty living present. (And yet, thou living, present brain! heir of the dead, the Old World brain! Thou that lay folded, like an unborn babe, within its folds so long! Thou carefully prepared by it so long!—haply thou but unfoldest it—only maturest it; It to eventuate in thee—the essence of the by-gone time contain’d in thee; Its poems, churches, arts, unwitting to themselves, destined with reference to thee, The fruit of all the Old, ripening to-day in thee. ) 3 Sail—sail thy best, ship of Democracy! Of value is thy freight—’tis not the Present only, The Past is also stored in thee! Thou holdest not the venture of thyself alone—not of thy western continent alone; Earth’s résumé entire floats on thy keel, O ship—is steadied by thy spars; With thee Time voyages in trust—the antecedent nations sink or swim with thee; With all their ancient struggles, martyrs, heroes, epics, wars, thou bear’st the other continents; Theirs, theirs as much as thine, the destination-port triumphant: —Steer, steer with good strong hand and wary eye, O helmsman—thou carryest great companions, Venerable, priestly Asia sails this day with thee, And royal, feudal Europe sails with thee. 4 Beautiful World of new, superber Birth, that rises to my eyes, Like a limitless golden cloud, filling the western sky; Emblem of general Maternity, lifted above all; Sacred shape of the bearer of daughters and sons; Out of thy teeming womb, thy giant babes in ceaseless procession issuing, Acceding from such gestation, taking and giving continual strength and life; World of the Real! world of the twain in one! World of the Soul—born by the world of the real alone—led to identity, body, by it alone; Yet in beginning only—incalculable masses of composite, precious materials, By history’s cycles forwarded—by every nation, language, hither sent, Ready, collected here—a freer, vast, electric World, to be constructed here, (The true New World—the world of orbic Science, Morals, Literatures to come,) Thou Wonder World, yet undefined, unform’d—neither do I define thee; How can I pierce the impenetrable blank of the future? I feel thy ominous greatness, evil as well as good; I watch thee, advancing, absorbing the present, transcending the past; I see thy light lighting and thy shadow shadowing, as if the entire globe; But I do not undertake to define thee—hardly to comprehend thee; I but thee name—thee prophecy—as now! I merely thee ejaculate! Thee in thy future; Thee in thy only permanent life, career—thy own unloosen’d mind—thy soaring spirit; Thee as another equally needed sun, America—radiant, ablaze, swift-moving, fructifying all; Thee! risen in thy potent cheerfulness and joy—thy endless, great hilarity! (Scattering for good the cloud that hung so long—that weigh’d so long upon the mind of man, The doubt, suspicion, dread, of gradual, certain decadence of man;) Thee in thy larger, saner breeds of Female, Male—thee in thy athletes, moral, spiritual, South, North, West, East, (To thy immortal breasts, Mother of All, thy every daughter, son, endear’d alike, forever equal;) Thee in thy own musicians, singers, artists, unborn yet, but certain; Thee in thy moral wealth and civilization (until which thy proudest material wealth and civilization must remain in vain;) Thee in thy all-supplying, all-enclosing Worship—thee in no single bible, saviour, merely, Thy saviours countless, latent within thyself—thy bibles incessant, within thyself, equal to any, divine as any; Thee in an education grown of thee—in teachers, studies, students, born of thee; Thee in thy democratic fetes, en masse—thy high original festivals, operas, lecturers, preachers; Thee in thy ultimata, (the preparations only now completed—the edifice on sure foundations tied,) Thee in thy pinnacles, intellect, thought—thy topmost rational joys—thy love, and godlike aspiration, In thy resplendent coming literati—thy full-lung’d orators—thy sacerdotal bards—kosmic savans, These! these in thee, (certain to come,) to-day I prophecy. 5 Land tolerating all—accepting all—not for the good alone—all good for thee; Land in the realms of God to be a realm unto thyself; Under the rule of God to be a rule unto thyself. (Lo! where arise three peerless stars, To be thy natal stars, my country—Ensemble—Evolution—Freedom, Set in the sky of Law. ) Land of unprecedented faith—God’s faith! Thy soil, thy very subsoil, all upheav’d; The general inner earth, so long, so sedulously draped over, now and hence for what it is, boldly laid bare, Open’d by thee to heaven’s light, for benefit or bale. Not for success alone; Not to fair-sail unintermitted always; The storm shall dash thy face—the murk of war, and worse than war, shall cover thee all over; (Wert capable of war—its tug and trials? Be capable of peace, its trials; For the tug and mortal strain of nations come at last in peace—not war;) In many a smiling mask death shall approach, beguiling thee—thou in disease shalt swelter; The livid cancer spread its hideous claws, clinging upon thy breasts, seeking to strike thee deep within; Consumption of the worst—moral consumption—shall rouge thy face with hectic: But thou shalt face thy fortunes, thy diseases, and surmount them all, Whatever they are to-day, and whatever through time they may be, They each and all shall lift, and pass away, and cease from thee; While thou, Time’s spirals rounding—out of thyself, thyself still extricating, fusing, Equable, natural, mystical Union thou—(the mortal with immortal blent,) Shalt soar toward the fulfilment of the future—the spirit of the body and the mind, The Soul—its destinies. The Soul, its destinies—the real real, (Purport of all these apparitions of the real;) In thee, America, the Soul, its destinies; Thou globe of globes! thou wonder nebulous! By many a throe of heat and cold convuls’d—(by these thyself solidifying;) Thou mental, moral orb! thou New, indeed new, Spiritual World! The Present holds thee not—for such vast growth as thine—for such unparallel’d flight as thine, The Future only holds thee, and can hold thee.

Written by Walt Whitman | Respondez! RESPONDEZ! Respondez! (The war is completed—the price is paid—the title is settled beyond recall;) Let every one answer! let those who sleep be waked! let none evade! Must we still go on with our affectations and sneaking? Let me bring this to a close—I pronounce openly for a new distribution of roles; Let that which stood in front go behind! and let that which was behind advance to the front and speak; Let murderers, bigots, fools, unclean persons, offer new propositions! Let the old propositions be postponed! Let faces and theories be turn’d inside out! let meanings be freely criminal, as well as results! Let there be no suggestion above the suggestion of drudgery! Let none be pointed toward his destination! (Say! do you know your destination?) Let men and women be mock’d with bodies and mock’d with Souls! Let the love that waits in them, wait! let it die, or pass stillborn to other spheres! Let the sympathy that waits in every man, wait! or let it also pass, a dwarf, to other spheres! Let contradictions prevail! let one thing contradict another! and let one line of my poems contradict another! Let the people sprawl with yearning, aimless hands! let their tongues be broken! let their eyes be discouraged! let none descend into their hearts with the fresh lusciousness of love! (Stifled, O days! O lands! in every public and private corruption! Smother’d in thievery, impotence, shamelessness, mountain-high; Brazen effrontery, scheming, rolling like ocean’s waves around and upon you, O my days! my lands! For not even those thunderstorms, nor fiercest lightnings of the war, have purified the atmosphere;) —Let the theory of America still be management, caste, comparison! (Say! what other theory would you?) Let them that distrust birth and death still lead the rest! (Say! why shall they not lead you?) Let the crust of hell be neared and trod on! let the days be darker than the nights! let slumber bring less slumber than waking time brings! Let the world never appear to him or her for whom it was all made! Let the heart of the young man still exile itself from the heart of the old man! and let the heart of the old man be exiled from that of the young man! Let the sun and moon go! let scenery take the applause of the audience! let there be apathy under the stars! Let freedom prove no man’s inalienable right! every one who can tyrannize, let him tyrannize to his satisfaction! Let none but infidels be countenanced! Let the eminence of meanness, treachery, sarcasm, hate, greed, indecency, impotence, lust, be taken for granted above all! let writers, judges, governments, households, religions, philosophies, take such for granted above all! Let the worst men beget children out of the worst women! Let the priest still play at immortality! Let death be inaugurated! Let nothing remain but the ashes of teachers, artists, moralists, lawyers, and learn’d and polite persons! Let him who is without my poems be assassinated! Let the cow, the horse, the camel, the garden-bee—let the mudfish, the lobster, the mussel, eel, the sting-ray, and the grunting pig-fish—let these, and the like of these, be put on a perfect equality with man and woman! Let churches accommodate serpents, vermin, and the corpses of those who have died of the most filthy of diseases! Let marriage slip down among fools, and be for none but fools! Let men among themselves talk and think forever obscenely of women! and let women among themselves talk and think obscenely of men! Let us all, without missing one, be exposed in public, naked, monthly, at the peril of our lives! let our bodies be freely handled and examined by whoever chooses! Let nothing but copies at second hand be permitted to exist upon the earth! Let the earth desert God, nor let there ever henceforth be mention’d the name of God! Let there be no God! Let there be money, business, imports, exports, custom, authority, precedents, pallor, dyspepsia, smut, ignorance, unbelief! Let judges and criminals be transposed! let the prison-keepers be put in prison! let those that were prisoners take the keys! Say! why might they not just as well be transposed?) Let the slaves be masters! let the masters become slaves! Let the reformers descend from the stands where they are forever bawling! let an idiot or insane person appear on each of the stands! Let the Asiatic, the African, the European, the American, and the Australian, go armed against the murderous stealthiness of each other! let them sleep armed! let none believe in good will! Let there be no unfashionable wisdom! let such be scorn’d and derided off from the earth! Let a floating cloud in the sky—let a wave of the sea—let growing mint, spinach, onions, tomatoes—let these be exhibited as shows, at a great price for admission! Let all the men of These States stand aside for a few smouchers! let the few seize on what they choose! let the rest gawk, giggle, starve, obey! Let shadows be furnish’d with genitals! let substances be deprived of their genitals! Let there be wealthy and immense cities—but still through any of them, not a single poet, savior, knower, lover! Let the infidels of These States laugh all faith away! If one man be found who has faith, let the rest set upon him! Let them affright faith! let them destroy the power of breeding faith! Let the she-harlots and the he-harlots be prudent! let them dance on, while seeming lasts! (O seeming! seeming! seeming!) Let the preachers recite creeds! let them still teach only what they have been taught! Let insanity still have charge of sanity! Let books take the place of trees, animals, rivers, clouds! Let the daub’d portraits of heroes supersede heroes! Let the manhood of man never take steps after itself! Let it take steps after eunuchs, and after consumptive and genteel persons! Let the white person again tread the black person under his heel! (Say! which is trodden under heel, after all?) Let the reflections of the things of the world be studied in mirrors! let the things themselves still continue unstudied! Let a man seek pleasure everywhere except in himself! Let a woman seek happiness everywhere except in herself! (What real happiness have you had one single hour through your whole life?) Let the limited years of life do nothing for the limitless years of death! (What do you suppose death will do, then?)

Written by W S Merwin | The Ships Are Made Ready In Silence Moored to the same ring: The hour, the darkness and I, Our compasses hooded like falcons. Now the memory of you comes aching in With a wash of broken bits which never left port In which once we planned voyages, They come knocking like hearts asking: What departures on this tide? Breath of land, warm breath, You tighten the cold around the navel, Though all shores but the first have been foreign, And the first was not home until left behind. Our choice is ours but we have not made it, Containing as it does, our destination Circled with loss as with coral, and A destination only until attained. I have left you my hope to remember me by, Though now there is little resemblance. At this moment I could believe in no change, The mast perpetually Vacillating between the same constellations, The night never withdrawing its dark virtue >From the harbor shaped as a heart, The sea pulsing as a heart, The sky vaulted as a heart, Where I know the light will shatter like a cry Above a discovery: "Emptiness. Emptiness! Look!" Look. This is the morning.

Written by Spike Milligan | Eurolove I cannot and I will not No, I cannot love you less Like the flower to the butterfly The corsage to the dress She turns my love to dust my destination empty my beliefs scattered: Diaspora! Who set this course - and why? Now my wings beat - without purpose Yet they speed. . .

Written by Billy Collins | Directions You know the brick path in the back of the house, the one you see from the kitchen window, the one that bends around the far end of the garden where all the yellow primroses are? And you know how if you leave the path and walk into the woods you come to a heap of rocks, probably pushed down during the horrors of the Ice Age, and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now against the light-brown fallen leaves? And farther on, you know the small footbridge with the broken railing and if you go beyond the you arrive at the bottom of sheep's head hill? Well, if you start climbing, and you might have to grab on to a sapling when the going gets steep, you will eventually come to a long stone ridge with a border of pine trees which is a high as you can go and a good enough place to stop. The best time for this is late afternoon en the sun strobes through the columns of trees as you are hiking up, and when you find an agreeable rock to sit on, you will be able to see the light pouring down into the woods and breaking into the shapes and tones of things and you will hear nothing but a sprig of a birdsong or leafy falling of a cone or t through the trees, and if this is your day you might even spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese driving overhead toward some destination. But it is hard to speak of these things how the voices of light enter the body and begin to recite their stories how the earth holds us painfully against ts breast made of humus and brambles how we will soon be gone regard the entities that continue to return greener than ever, spring water flowing through a meadow and the shadows of clouds passing over the hills and the ground where we stand in the tremble of thought taking the vast outside into ourselves. Still, let me know before you set out. Come knock on my door and I will walk with you as far as the garden with one hand on your shoulder. I will even watch after you and not turn back to the house until you disappear into the crowd of maple and ash, heading up toward the hill, percing the ground with your stick.

Written by Sylvia Plath | Getting There How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me --- The terrible brains Of Krupp, black muzzles Revolving, the sound Punching out Absence! Like cannon. It is Russia I have to get across, it is some was or other. I am dragging my body Quietly through the straw of the boxcars. Now is the time for bribery. What do wheels eat, these wheels Fixed to their arcs like gods, The silver leash of the will ---- Inexorable. And their pride! All the gods know destinations. I am a letter in this slot! I fly to a name, two eyes. Will there be fire, will there be bread? Here there is such mud. It is a trainstop, the nurses Undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery, Touching their wounded, The men the blood still pumps forward, Legs, arms piled outside The tent of unending cries ---- A hospital of dolls. And the men, what is left of the men Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood Into the next mile, The next hour ---- Dynasty of broken arrows! How far is it? There is mud on my feet, Thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side, This earth I rise from, and I in agony. I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming. Steaming and breathing, its teeth Ready to roll, like a devil's. There is a minute at the end of it A minute, a dewdrop. How far is it? It is so small The place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ---- The body of this woman, Charred skirts and deathmask Mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children. And now detonations ---- Thunder and guns. The fire's between us. Is there no place Turning and turning in the middle air, Untouchable and untouchable. The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ---- An animal Insane for the destination, The bloodspot, The face at the end of the flare. I shall bury the wounded like pupas, I shall count and bury the dead. Let their souls writhe in like dew, Incense in my track. The carriages rock, they are cradles. And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step up to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

Written by John Betjeman | A Shropshire Lad The gas was on in the Institute, The flare was up in the gym, A man was running a mineral line, A lass was singing a hymn, When Captain Webb the Dawley man, Captain Webb from Dawley, Came swimming along the old canal That carried the bricks to Lawley. Swimming along - Swimming along - Swimming along from Severn, And paying a call at Dawley Bank while swimming along to Heaven. The sun shone low on the railway line And over the bricks and stacks And in at the upstairs windows Of the Dawley houses' backs When we saw the ghost of Captain Webb, Webb in a water sheeting, Come dripping along in a bathing dress To the Saturday evening meeting. Dripping along - Dripping along - To the Congregational Hall; Dripping and still he rose over the sill and faded away in a wall. There wasn't a man in Oakengates That hadn't got hold of the tale, And over the valley in Ironbridge, And round by Coalbrookdale, How CAptain Webb the Dawley man, Captain Webb from Dawley, Rose rigid and dead from the old canal That carries the bricks to Lawley. Rigid and dead - Rigid and dead - To the Saturday congregation, Paying a call at Dawley Bank on the way to his destination.

Written by Elizabeth Jennings | One Flesh Lying apart now, each in a separate bed, He with a book, keeping the light on late, She like a girl dreaming of childhood, All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait Some new event: the book he holds unread, Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead. Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion, How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch, Or if they do, it is like a confession Of having little feeling - or too much. Chastity faces them, a destination For which their whole lives were a preparation. Strangely apart, yet strangely close together, Silence between them like a thread to hold And not wind in. And time itself's a feather Touching them gently. Do they know they're old, These two who are my father and my mother Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | George Gray I have studied many times The marble which was chiseled for me -- A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor. In truth it pictures not my destination But my life. For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment; Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid; Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances. Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life. And now I know that we must lift the sail And catch the winds of destiny Wherever they drive the boat. To put meaning in one's life may end in madness, But life without meaning is the torture Of restlessness and vague desire -- It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Our New Horse The boys had come back from the races All silent and down on their luck; They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places, But never a winner they's struck. They lost their good money on Slogan, And fell most uncommonly flat When Partner, the pride of the Bogan, Was beaten by Aristocrat. And one said, "I move that instanter We sell out our horses and quit; The brutes ought to win in a canter, Such trials they do when they're fit. The last one they ran was a snorter -- A gallop to gladden one's heart -- Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter, And finished as straight as a dart. "And then when I think that they're ready To win me a nice little swag, They are licked like the veriest neddy -- They're licked from the fall of the flag. The mare held her own to the stable, She died out to nothing at that, And Partner he never seemed able To pace with the Aristocrat. "And times have been bad, and the seasons Don't promise to be of the best; In short, boys, there's plenty of reasons For giving the racing a rest. The mare can be kept on the station -- Her breeding is good as can be -- But Partner, his next destination Is rather a trouble to me. "We can't sell him here, for they know him As well as the clerk of the course; He's raced and won races till, blow him, He's done as a handicap horse. A jady, uncertain performer, They weight him right out of the hunt, And clap it on warmer and warmer Whenever he gets near the front. "It's no use to paint him or dot him Or put any fake on his brand, For bushmen are smart, and they'd spot him In any sale-yard in the land. The folk about here could all tell him, Could swear to each separate hair; Let us send him to Sydney and sell him, There's plenty of Jugginses there. "We'll call him a maiden, and treat 'em To trials will open their eyes; We'll run their best horses and beat 'em, And then won't they think him a prize. I pity the fellow that buys him, He'll find in a very short space, No matter how highly he tries him, The beggar won't race in a race. " * * * * * Next week, under "Seller and Buyer", Appeared in the Daily Gazette: "A racehorse for sale, and a flyer; Has never been started as yet; A trial will show what his pace is; The buyer can get him in light, And win all the handicap races. Apply before Saturday night. " He sold for a hundred and thirty, Because of a gallop he had One morning with Bluefish and Bertie. And donkey-licked both of 'em bad. And when the old horse had departed, The life on the station grew tame; The race-track was dull and deserted, The boys had gone back on the game. * * * * * The winter rolled by, and the station Was green with the garland of Spring; A spirit of glad exultation Awoke in each animate thing; And all the old love, the old longing, Broke out in the breasts of the boys -- The visions of racing came thronging With all its delirious joys. The rushing of floods in their courses, The rattle of rain on the roofs, Recalled the fierce rush of the horses, The thunder of galloping hoofs. And soon one broke out: "I can suffer No longer the life of a slug; The man that don't race is a duffer, Let's have one more run for the mug. "Why, everything races, no matter Whatever its method may be: The waterfowl hold a regatta; The possums run heats up a tree; The emus are constantly sprinting A handicap out on the plain; It seems that all nature is hinting 'Tis ime to be at it again. "The cockatoo parrots are talking Of races to far-away lands; The native companions are walking A go-as-you-please on the sands; The little foals gallop for pastime; The wallabies race down the gap; Let's try it once more for the last time -- Bring out the old jacket and cap. "And now for a horse; we might try one Of those that are bred on the place. But I fancy it's better to buy one, A horse that has proved he can race. Let us send down to Sydney to Skinner, A thorough good judge who can ride, And ask him to buy us a spinner To clean out the whole country-side. " They wrote him a letter as follows: "we want you to buy us a horse; He must have the speed to catch swallows, And stamina with it, of course. The price ain't a thing that'll grieve us, It's getting a bad un annoys The undersigned blokes, and believe us, We're yours to a cinder, 'the boys'. " He answered: "I've bought you a hummer, A horse that has never been raced; I saw him run over the Drummer, He held him outclassed and outpaced. His breeding's not known, but they state he Is born of a thoroughbred strain. I've paid them a hundred and eighty, And started the horse in the train. " They met him -- alas, that these verses Aren't up to their subject's demands, Can't set forth thier eloquent curses -- For Partner was back in their hands. They went in to meet him with gladness They opened his box with delight -- A silent procession of sadness They crept to the station at night. And life has grown dull on the station, The boys are all silent and slow; Their work is a daily vexation, And sport is unknown to them now. Whenever they think how they stranded, They squeal just as guinea-pigs squeal; They'd bit their own hook, and were landed With fifty pounds loss on the deal.