“WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH YON SHIP MUST GO?”

By William Wordsworth

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?

Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,

Festively she puts forth in trim array;

Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?

What boots the inquiry?— Neither friend nor foe

She cares for; let her travel where she may,

She finds familiar names, a beaten way

Ever before her, and a wind to blow.

Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?

And, almost as it was when ships were rare,

( From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there

Crossing the waters ) doubt, and something dark,

Of the old Sea some reverential fear,

Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!