Poem 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!

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