travel poetry by heart

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18 Poems About Travel to Inspire Your Traveler’s Soul to See the World

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Within the depths of every adventurous spirit lies a yearning for exploration, a longing to traverse the far reaches of the Earth, and a desire to witness the wonders that lie beyond our familiar horizons.

The world is a tapestry of enchanting landscapes, vibrant cultures, and hidden treasures, inviting us to venture forth and embrace its splendor.

Through the evocative power of poetry, let us embark on a journey of inspiration and discovery , as these poems transport us to distant lands, stoke the flames of wanderlust, and awaken the traveler within. So pack your bags, open your heart to the allure of the unknown, and let these verses guide you to see the world with new eyes. Welcome to poems about travel to inspire your traveler’s soul.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost / Poems About Travel

Against the Shore by Atticus

against the shore,

restless like

for any adventure,

that blew along her way

Against the Shore by Atticus / Poems About Travel

The Opportune Moment by Sheenagh Pugh

When you go ashore in that town,

take neither a camera nor a notebook.

However many photographs you upload

of that street, the smell of almond paste

will be missing; the harbour will not sound

of wind slapping on chains. You will read

notes like “Sami church”, later, and know

you saw nothing, never put it where

you could find it again, were never

really there. When you go ashore

in the small port with the rusty trawlers,

there will be fur hawkers who all look

like Genghis Khan on a market stall,

crumbling pavements, roses frozen in bud,

an altar with wool hangings, vessels

like canal ware, a Madonna

with a Russian doll face. When you go

ashore, take nothing but the knowledge

that where you are, you never will be again.

The Opportune Moment by Sheenagh Pugh / Poems About Travel Journeys

A Prayer for Travelers by Anon

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;

The rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

A Prayer for Travelers by Anon / Travel Poetry

Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading me wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman / Poems About Traveling Through Life

Travel by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The railroad track is miles away,

And the day is loud with voices speaking,

Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day

But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn’t a train goes by,

Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,

But I see its cinders red on the sky,

And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,

And better friends I’ll not be knowing;

Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,

No matter where it’s going.

Travel by Edna St. Vincent Millay / Poems About Travel

On the World by Francis Quarles

The world’s an inn; and I her guest.

I eat; I drink; I take my rest.

My hostess, nature, does deny me

Nothing, wherewith she can supply me;

Where, having stayed a while, I pay

Her lavish bills, and go my way.

On the World by Francis Quarles / Poems About Traveling the World

Die Slowly by Martha Medeiros

He who becomes the slave of habit,

who follows the same routes every day,

who never changes pace,

who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,

who does not speak and does not experience,

dies slowly.

He or she who shuns passion,

who prefers black on white,

dotting ones i’s rather than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer,

that turn a yawn into a smile,

that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings,

He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy,

who is unhappy at work,

who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,

to thus follow a dream,

those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives,

die slowly.

He who does not travel, who does not read,

who does not listen to music,

who does not find grace in himself,

she who does not find grace in herself,

He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,

who does not allow himself to be helped,

who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops,

He or she who abandons a project before starting it, who fails to ask questions on subjects he doesn’t know, he or she who doesn’t reply when they are asked something they do know,

Let’s try and avoid death in small doses,

reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing.

Only a burning patience will lead

to the attainment of a splendid happiness

Die Slowly by Martha Medeiros / Poems About Why You Need to Travel

If Once You Have Slept on an Island by Rachel Field

If once you have slept on an island

You’ll never be quite the same;

You may look as you looked the day before

And go by the same old name,

You may bustle about in street and shop;

You may sit at home and sew,

But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gulls

Wherever your feet may go.

You may chat with the neighbors of this and that

And close to your fire keep,

But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell

And tides beat through your sleep.

Oh, you won’t know why, and you can’t say how

Such change upon you came,

But – once you have slept on an island

You’ll never be quite the same!

If Once You Have Slept on an Island by Rachel Field / Poems About Travel And How It Changes Us

The Moment by Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years

of hard work and a long voyage

you stand in the centre of your room,

house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,

knowing at last how you got there,

and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose

their soft arms from around you,

the birds take back their language,

the cliffs fissure and collapse,

the air moves back from you like a wave

and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.

You were a visitor, time after time

climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.

We never belonged to you.

You never found us.

It was always the other way round.

The Moment by Margaret Atwood / Famous Travel Poems

Freedom by Olive Runner

Give me the long, straight road before me,

A clear, cold day with a nipping air,

Tall, bare trees to run on beside me,

A heart that is light and free from care.

Then let me go! – I care not whither

My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be

Free as the brook that flows to the river,

Free as the river that flows to the sea.

Freedom by Olive Runner / Poems About Travel

Poem About Travel by Drewniverses

You are not a tree. You are not bound

to the ground you walk on. You have

wings and dreams and a heart full of

wonder. So pick up your feet and go.

Spread kindness like a wildflower

wherever you go. Fall in love with the

life you live, and always leave people

better than you found them.

Poem About Travel by Drewniverses / Poems About Travel

Traveling by Nayyirah Waheed

be insecure

allow yourself lowness.

know that it is

the way to who you are.

Traveling by Nayyirah Waheed / Poems About Travel and Adventure

P.S. I Love You by H. Jackson Brown

Twenty years from now

You’ll be more disappointed

By the things you didn’t do

Than by the ones you did do.

So throw off the bowlines.

Sail away from the harbor.

Catch the trade winds in your sails.

P.S. I Love You by H. Jackson Brown / Poems About Travel Why You Need to Travel the World

For the Traveler by John O’Donohue

Every time you leave home,

Another road takes you

Into a world you were never in.

New strangers on other paths await.

New places that have never seen you

Will startle a little at your entry.

Old places that know you well

Will pretend nothing

Changed since your last visit.

When you travel, you find yourself

Alone in a different way,

More attentive now

To the self you bring along,

Your more subtle eye watching

You abroad; and how what meets you

Touches that part of the heart

That lies low at home:

How you unexpectedly attune

To the timbre in some voice,

Opening in conversation

You want to take in

To where your longing

Has pressed hard enough

Inward, on some unsaid dark,

To create a crystal of insight

You could not have known

To illuminate

When you travel,

A new silence

Goes with you,

And if you listen,

You will hear

What your heart would

Love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing:

Make sure, before you go,

To take the time

To bless your going forth,

To free your heart of ballast

So that the compass of your soul

Might direct you toward

The territories of spirit

Where you will discover

More of your hidden life,

And the urgencies

That deserve to claim you.

May you travel in an awakened way,

Gathered wisely into your inner ground;

That you may not waste the invitations

Which wait along the way to transform you.

May you travel safely, arrive refreshed,

And live your time away to its fullest;

Return home more enriched, and free

To balance the gift of days which call you.

For the Traveler by John O’Donohue / Poems About Travel and How It Changes Us

Why Do I Travel? Author Unknown

It is on the road that my inner voice speaks the loudest and my heart beats the strongest.

It is on the road that I take extra pride in my wooly hair, full features and lineage.

It is on the road that I develop extra senses and the hairs on my arms stand up and say “Sana, don’t go there”, and I listen.

It’s when I safety pin my money to my underclothes and count it a million times before I go to sleep,

It is on the road that I am a poet, an ambassador, a dancer, medicine woman, an angel and even a genius.

It’s on the road that I am fearless and unstoppable and if necessary ball up my fist and fight back.

It is on the road that I talk to my deceased parents and they speak back

It’s on the road that I reprimand myself, and set new goals, refuel, stop and begin again.

It is on the road that I experience what freedom truly is.

It is my travel that has transformed me making me a citizen of the world. When my humanness, compassion and affection are raised to a new level and I share unconditionally.

Why Do I Travel? Author Unknown / Poems About Travel

Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson

I should like to rise and go

Where the golden apples grow;—

Where below another sky

Parrot islands anchored lie,

And, watched by cockatoos and goats,

Lonely Crusoes building boats;—

Where in sunshine reaching out

Eastern cities, miles about,

Are with mosque and minaret

Among sandy gardens set,

And the rich goods from near and far

Hang for sale in the bazaar,—

Where the Great Wall round China goes,

And on one side the desert blows,

And with bell and voice and drum

Cities on the other hum;—

Where are forests, hot as fire,

Wide as England, tall as a spire,

Full of apes and cocoa-nuts

And the negro hunters’ huts;—

Where the knotty crocodile

Lies and blinks in the Nile,

And the red flamingo flies

Hunting fish before his eyes;—

Where in jungles, near and far,

Man-devouring tigers are,

Lying close and giving ear

Lest the hunt be drawing near,

Or a comer-by be seen

Swinging in a palanquin;—

Where among the desert sands

Some deserted city stands,

All its children, sweep and prince,

Grown to manhood ages since,

Not a foot in street or house,

Not a stir of child or mouse,

And when kindly falls the night,

In all the town no spark of light.

There I’ll come when I’m a man

With a camel caravan;

Light a fire in the gloom

Of some dusty dining-room;

See the pictures on the walls,

Heroes, fights and festivals;

And in a corner find the toys

Of the old Egyptian boys.

Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson / Poems About Travel

Night Traveler by Deepa Thomas

I am a night traveler

Travel all through the night

And my bed is a sailing boat

I reach for my bed every night

And take a trip places far away

To see new things and people

I travel past the harbors

Full of anchored boats

I travel past the beaches

With swaying coconut trees

I watch the waves

Embracing the shore

I watch the kids playing

And reach out my arms

Then I touch my own bed

Here comes a flash

And my boat is back

And I am back in bed

My boat sails every night

And reach home with morning light

Never did it anchor once

Still traveling every day

Hoping to reach

That unknown destination

Night Travel by Deepa Thomas / Poems About Travel

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Poetry About Travel: 21 Most Inspiring Travel Poems

Are you looking for beautiful poetry about travel? Then you have come to the right place! This post features some of the most inspiring travel poems out there.

Travel experiences are often shared in blog posts, videos, books, songs or quotes , but poetry about travel is a bit harder to find. Poetry is a beautiful way to capture how travel makes us feel though, and there are some amazing poems about travel and adventure out there!

I collected 21 of the most beautiful travelling poems in this post. Let me know in the comments if you think there’s a beautiful poem that’s missing from this list, as I’m updating it frequently!

Poetry About Travel: The Most Beautiful Travel Poems

1. The Farewell by Kahlil Gibran

Even though the poetry about travel in this list is in no particular order, the first poem I had to think of was The Farewell by Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931). This beautiful poem can be found in Gibran’s book The Prophet , which is one of the most translated books in history.

I only included my favourite part in this post, as the poem is quite long, but you can read the full version on the link below.

We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth sleeps we travel. We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.

Read the full version of Farewell here

2. Freedom by Olive Runner

This short but powerful travel poem by Olive Runner embraces the feeling of freedom that can be found in travelling. It’s one of the most inspiring poems about exploring the world.

Give me the long, straight road before me, A clear, cold day with a nipping air, Tall, bare trees to run on beside me, A heart that is light and free from care. Then let me go! – I care not whither My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be Free as the brook that flows to the river, Free as the river that flows to the sea.

3. Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman

The main themes in Whitman’s (1819-1892) Song of the Open Road are freedom, joy and independence. This piece of travel poetry inspires us to be free from expectations, follow our own path and enjoy life – it holds a very beautiful message if you’re asking me!

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient, I do not want the constellations any nearer, I know they are very well where they are, I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

4. A Song of Joys by Walt Whitman

You can find the last part of A Song of Joys by Walt Whitman (1819-1892) below. In this poem, Whitman describes different types of people and what brings joy to them. The last part speaks about the joy of travelling and exploring.

You can find the entire poem on the link below if you want to read the entire piece.

O to sail in a ship, To leave this steady unendurable land, To leave the tiresome sameness of the streets, the sidewalks and the houses, To leave you, O you solid motionless land, and entering a ship, To sail and sail and sail! O to have my life henceforth a poem of new joys! To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on, float on, To be a sailor of the world, bound for all ports, A ship itself, (see indeed these sails I spread to the sun and air,) A swift and swelling ship, full of rich words—full of joys.

Read the full version here

5. Travelling Again by Du Fu

Often called “the Poet-Historian”, Du Fu (712-770 AD) is considered one of the greatest Chinese poets. His poem Traveling Again was written in 761 AD, which makes it the oldest of the travelling poems on this list. Fu wrote it during his second visit to a temple in a turbulent time for his country.

Temple remember once travel place Bridge remember again cross time River mountain like waiting Flower willow become selfless Country vivid mist shine thin Sand soft sun colour late Traveller sorrow all become decrease Stay here again what this

I remember the temple, this route I’ve travelled before, I recall the bridge as I cross it again. It seems the hills and rivers have been waiting, The flowers and willows all are selfless now. The field is sleek and vivid, thin mist shines, On soft sand, the sunlight’s colour shows it’s late. All the traveller’s sorrow fades away, What better place to rest than this?

6. Hearthside by Dorothy Parker

In Hearthside by Dorothy Parker (1893-1967), someone is sitting by a fire and thinking about all the places they will never see. It’s a touching piece of travel poetry that makes you dream about visiting places you haven’t been to (yet).

Half across the world from me Lie the lands I’ll never see- I, whose longing lives and dies Where a ship has sailed away; I, that never close my eyes But to look upon Cathay.

Things I may not know nor tell Wait, where older waters swell; Ways that flowered at Sappho’s tread, Winds that sighed in Homer’s strings, Vibrant with the singing dead, Golden with the dust of wings.

Under deeper skies than mine, Quiet valleys dip and shine. Where their tender grasses heal Ancient scars of trench and tomb I shall never walk: nor kneel Where the bones of poets bloom.

If I seek a lovelier part, Where I travel goes my heart; Where I stray my thought must go; With me wanders my desire. Best to sit and watch the snow, Turn the lock, and poke the fire.

7. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

A list full of poetry about travel wouldn’t be complete without The Road Not Taken . This deep poem by Robert Frost (1874-1963) talks about how the choices we make, no matter how small they may seem, can impact and shape our lives.

This is one of the most famous poems in the world, where the speaker chooses to take the “road less travelled by”. He/she doesn’t choose the life most people choose and thanks to this, the speaker of this poem is often celebrated for their individualism.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

8. Eldorado by Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was my favourite poet as a teenager, and he’s still one of my favourite poets today. It’s believed that Eldorado is one of his last poems, as he wrote it six months before his death.

Eldorado tells the story of a knight who travels in search of a city of gold. According to scholars, parallels can be seen between the knight’s quest in this poem and Poe’s quest to find happiness in his life.

Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old – This knight so bold – And o’er his heart a shadow Fell, as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow – ‘Shadow,’ said he, ‘Where can it be – This land of Eldorado?’ ‘Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride,’ The shade replied, ‘If you seek for Eldorado!’

9. Rootless by Jenny Xie

In Rootless , Jenny Xie describes what she sees on a sleeper train between Hanoi and Sapa in Vietnam. The landscapes around the speaker constantly change while he/she is the only constant.

Between Hanoi and Sapa there are clean slabs of rice fields and no two brick houses in a row.

I mean, no three— See, counting’s hard in half-sleep, and the rain pulls a sheet

over the sugar palms and their untroubled leaves. Hours ago, I crossed a motorbike with a hog strapped to its seat,

the size of a date pit from a distance. Can this solitude be rootless, unhooked from the ground?

No matter. The mind resides both inside and out. It can think itself and think itself into existence.

I sponge off the eyes, no worse for wear. My frugal mouth spends the only foreign words it owns.

At present, on this sleeper train, there’s nowhere to arrive. Me? I’m just here in my traveller’s clothes, trying on each passing town for size.

10. Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson

This travel poem by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) talks about the dreams and ambitions of a young boy who wants to travel around the world when he grows up. It’s part of Stevenson’s collection A Child’s Garden of Verses .

I should like to rise and go Where the golden apples grow;— Where below another sky Parrot islands anchored lie, And, watched by cockatoos and goats, Lonely Crusoes building boats;— Where in sunshine reaching out Eastern cities, miles about, Are with mosque and minaret Among sandy gardens set, And the rich goods from near and far Hang for sale in the bazaar,— Where the Great Wall round China goes, And on one side the desert blows, And with bell and voice and drum Cities on the other hum;— Where are forests, hot as fire, Wide as England, tall as a spire, Full of apes and cocoa-nuts And the negro hunters’ huts;— Where the knotty crocodile Lies and blinks in the Nile, And the red flamingo flies Hunting fish before his eyes;— Where in jungles, near and far, Man-devouring tigers are, Lying close and giving ear Lest the hunt be drawing near, Or a comer-by be seen Swinging in a palanquin;— Where among the desert sands Some deserted city stands, All its children, sweep and prince, Grown to manhood ages since, Not a foot in street or house, Not a stir of child or mouse, And when kindly falls the night, In all the town no spark of light. There I’ll come when I’m a man With a camel caravan; Light a fire in the gloom Of some dusty dining-room; See the pictures on the walls, Heroes, fights and festivals; And in a corner find the toys Of the old Egyptian boys.

Drinking a cocktail at Lake Atitlan in Guatemala

11. Dislocation by Simon Constam

Simon Constam wrote this beautiful travel poem during his round-the-world trip when he was 19. It’s about the difference between travelling long term and going on a holiday, which are two different things.

Long-term travel comes with its difficulties and challenges, and it’s different from vacationing.

I envy those who envy me for traveling. Sometimes I sit on a foreign street in a busy cafe, imagining you wishing you were here, feeling for the first time the thrilling flush of wanting to be elsewhere, the frisson of happiness that wishes bring. And so I sit quietly knowing that now it’s time to figure out just what it is I meant to do here.

Valbona Pass hiking in the Accursed Mountains of Albania

12. Questions of travel by Elizabeth Bishop

In the poem Questions of Travel , Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979) touches on subjects like travel, home, conflict and regret. This piece of travel poetry is one that depicts the pros and cons of travelling, and why we do it.

There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams hurry too rapidly down to the sea, and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion, turning to waterfalls under our very eyes. –For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains, aren’t waterfalls yet, in a quick age or so, as ages go here, they probably will be. But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling, the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships, slime-hung and barnacled.

Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed at home and thought of here? Where should we be today? Is it right to be watching strangers in a play in this strangest of theatres? What childishness is it that while there’s a breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around? The tiniest green hummingbird in the world? To stare at some inexplicable old stonework, inexplicable and impenetrable, at any view, instantly seen and always, always delightful? Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too? And have we room for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?

But surely it would have been a pity not to have seen the trees along this road, really exaggerated in their beauty, not to have seen them gesturing like noble pantomimists, robed in pink. –Not to have had to stop for gas and heard the sad, two-noted, wooden tune of disparate wooden clogs carelessly clacking over a grease-stained filling-station floor. (In another country the clogs would all be tested. Each pair there would have identical pitch.) –A pity not to have heard the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird who sings above the broken gasoline pump in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque: three towers, five silver crosses. –Yes, a pity not to have pondered, blurr’dly and inconclusively, on what connection can exist for centuries between the crudest wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden cages. –Never to have studied history in the weak calligraphy of songbirds’ cages. –And never to have had to listen to rain so much like politicians’ speeches: two hours of unrelenting oratory and then a sudden golden silence in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:

“Is it lack of imagination that makes us come to imagined places, not just stay at home? Or could Pascal have been not entirely right about just sitting quietly in one’s room?

Continent, city, country, society: the choice is never wide and never free. And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home, wherever that may be?”

Boddhanath Stupa one of the most famous landmarks in Asia

13. For the Traveler by John O’Donohue

In For the Traveler , John O’Donohue (1956-2008) describes how travelling can change us, and how enriching it is. This poem is about exploring, going on a journey and coming back as a different person – something I can relate to!

Every time you leave home, Another road takes you Into a world you were never in.

New strangers on other paths await. New places that have never seen you Will startle a little at your entry. Old places that know you well Will pretend nothing Changed since your last visit.

When you travel, you find yourself Alone in a different way, More attentive now To the self you bring along, Your more subtle eye watching You abroad; and how what meets you Touches that part of the heart That lies low at home:

How you unexpectedly attune To the timbre in some voice, Opening in conversation You want to take in To where your longing Has pressed hard enough Inward, on some unsaid dark, To create a crystal of insight You could not have known You needed To illuminate Your way.

When you travel, A new silence Goes with you, And if you listen, You will hear What your heart would Love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing: Make sure, before you go, To take the time To bless your going forth, To free your heart of ballast So that the compass of your soul Might direct you toward The territories of spirit Where you will discover More of your hidden life, And the urgencies That deserve to claim you.

May you travel in an awakened way, Gathered wisely into your inner ground; That you may not waste the invitations Which wait along the way to transform you.

May you travel safely, arrive refreshed, And live your time away to its fullest; Return home more enriched, and free To balance the gift of days which call you.

14. The Return by Geneen Marie Haugen

Similarly to For the Traveler (#13 on this list), The Return speaks about coming back from a journey as a different person. The difference, however, is that this poem focuses on other people’s points of view, including people’s prejudice and expectations.

Some day, if you are lucky, you’ll return from a thunderous journey trailing snake scales, wing fragments and the musk of Earth and moon .

Eyes will examine you for signs of damage, or change and you, too, will wonder if your skin shows traces

of fur, or leaves, if thrushes have built a nest of your hair, if Andromeda burns from your eyes.

Do not be surprised by prickly questions from those who barely inhabit their own fleeting lives, who barely taste their own possibility, who barely dream.

If your hands are empty, treasureless, if your toes have not grown claws, if your obedient voice has not become a wild cry, a howl,

you will reassure them. We warned you, they might declare, there is nothing else, no point, no meaning, no mystery at all, just this frantic waiting to die.

And yet, they tremble, mute, afraid you’ve returned without sweet elixir for unspeakable thirst, without a fluent dance or holy language to teach them, without a compass bearing to a forgotten border where no one crosses without weeping for the terrible beauty of galaxies

and granite and bone. They tremble, hoping your lips hold a secret, that the song your body now sings will redeem them, yet they fear

your secret is dangerous, shattering, and once it flies from your astonished mouth, they — like you — must disintegrate before unfolding tremulous wings.

Landscapes from the train with a Buddhist monk

15. Travel by Edna St. Vincent Millay

In this beautiful piece of travel poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 – 1950), the narrator longs to escape from their everyday life. They hear how the train goes by in the distance and dream about how it could take them somewhere new.

The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn’t a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I’ll not be knowing, Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take, No matter where it’s going.

16. Traveling by Nayyirah Waheed

Nayyirah Waheed has been described as “the most famous poet on Instagram”, as her poems are frequently shared on this platform.

Apart from her poems, not much is known about Waheed. She doesn’t reveal many details about her life and describes herself as a “quiet poet” – which is quite fascinating! Waheed’s poem Traveling is a beautiful example of her repertoire.

be insecure in peace. allow yourself lowness. know that it is only a country on the way to who you are.

17. On the World by Francis Quarles

On the World is another short and beautiful travel poem that describes the life of a traveller.

The world’s an Inn; and I her guest. I eat; I drink; I take my rest. My hostess, nature, does deny me Nothing, wherewith she can supply me; Where, having stayed a while, I pay Her lavish bills, and go my way.

Hawa Mahal, one of the most beautiful monuments in Jaipur

18. Why Do I Travel by an unknown author

If you love traveling, you might relate to this poem which explains why the author travels. This piece is about what travel is all about, the adventure and the lessons it brings.

It is on the road that my inner voice speaks the loudest and my heart beats the strongest. It is on the road that I take extra pride in my wooly hair, full features and lineage. It is on the road that I develop extra senses and the hairs on my arms stand up and say “Sana, don’t go there”, and I listen. It’s when I safety pin my money to my underclothes and count it a million times before I go to sleep. It is on the road that I am a poet, an ambassador, a dancer, medicine woman, an angel and even a genius. It’s on the road that I am fearless and unstoppable and if necessary ball up my fist and fight back. It is on the road that I talk to my deceased parents and they speak back. It’s on the road that I reprimand myself, and set new goals, refuel, stop and begin again. It is on the road that I experience what freedom truly is. It is my travel that has transformed me making me a citizen of the world. When my humanness, compassion and affection are raised to a new level and I share unconditionally.

19. If Once You’ve Slept on an Island by Rachel Field

This beautiful poem talks about how travel changes you and how you will not be the same after sleeping on an island.

If once you have slept on an island You’ll never be quite the same; You may look as you looked the day before And go by the same old name, You may bustle about in street and shop You may sit at home and sew, But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gulls Wherever your feet may go. You may chat with the neighbors of this and that And close to your fire keep, But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell And tides beat through your sleep. Oh! you won’t know why and you can’t say how Such a change upon you came, But once you have slept on an island, You’ll never be quite the same.

Woman sitting in frong of a lake with mountains in the back.

20. Die Slowly by Martha Medeiros

Although this poem covers more than travel alone, it’s incredibly relatable!

He who does not travel, who does not read, who can not hear music, who does not find grace in himself, she who does not find grace in herself, dies slowly.

He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem, who does not allow himself to be helped, who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops, dies slowly.

The Taj Mahal during sunrise. This is one of the most famous landmarks in Asia. It shows the front of the Taj Mahal and the sky is pink and yellow.

21. Oh, the Places You’ll Go by Dr. Seuss

This is another one of my favourite poems about travelling. It was written for the children’s book “Oh, the Places You’ll Go”, which was published in 1990.

Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

Congratulations! Today is your day. You’re off to Great Places! You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes You can steer yourself Any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

>> Read the full Dr. Seuss poem here

Poetry About Travel: Final Thoughts

And that was it, 21 of the best travel poems out there! I hope that you have found exactly what you were looking for in this list of travel poetry and that it gave you some inspiration.

I’m curious to hear what your favourite poem about travel is (mine are #1, #7 and 21)! Or did you come across other beautiful poetry about travel that’s not on this list? Let me know in the comments as I’m updating this post frequently.

Find more travel inspiration in the posts below:

56 Songs About Travel
21 Movies About Nomads
50 Solo Travel Quotes

Pin it for later: Did you find this post helpful? Save it on Pinterest and follow me on Instagram and Facebook for more travel tips and inspiration.

Laura Meyers

Laura Meyers is the founder of Laure Wanders. She was born in Belgium and has travelled to over 40 countries, many of them solo. She currently spends most of her time between Belgium and South Asia and loves helping other travellers plan their adventures abroad.

10 Beautiful Travel Poems For The Adventurer In You

Travel poems breathe wanderlust into words. Here are ten beautiful travel poems for the adventurer in you.

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Table of Contents

A Travel Poem For The Girl With Itchy Feet

against the shore,

restless like

for any adventure,

that blew along her way

– Atticus

A Travel Poem For The One On A Journey. Any Journey.

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading me wherever I choose,

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

– Walt Whitman, from Song of the Open Road

A Travel Poem That Sums Up Adventure In Four Gorgeous Lines

My heart is warm with the friends I make,

And better friends I’ll not be knowing,

Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,

No matter where it’s going.

– Edna St. Vincent Millay, from Travel

A Travel Poem From Margaret Atwood Because She Never Disappoints

No, they whisper. You own nothing.

You were a visitor, time after time

climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.

We never belong to you.

You never found us.

It was always the other way around.

– Margaret Atwood, from The Moment

This Travel Poem Is Just Everything

You are not a tree. You are not bound

to the ground you walk on. You have

wings and dreams and a heart full of

wonder. So pick up your feet and go.

Spread kindness like a wildflower

wherever you go. Fall in love with the

life you live, and always leave people

better than you found them.

– Drewniverses, from Tumblr

This 19th Century Travel Poem Is Just. So. Good.

Half across the world from me

Lie the lands I’ll never see- I, whose longing lives and dies Where a ship has sailed away; I, that never close my eyes But to look upon Cathay.

Under deeper skies than mine, Quiet valleys dip and shine. Where their tender grasses heal Ancient scars of trench and tomb I shall never walk: nor kneel Where the bones of poets bloom.

If I seek a lovelier part, Where I travel goes my heart; Where I stray my thought must go; With me wanders my desire. Best to sit and watch the snow, Turn the lock, and poke the fire.

– Dorothy Parker, from Hearthside

If Only I Could Swallow This Modern Travel Poem

be insecure

allow yourself lowness.

know that it is

the way to who you are.

– Nayyirah Waheed, from Traveling

Then, There’s This Transcendent Travel Poem

my eyes will remember

how to love the world

under changing skies.

when the light changes,

so does the view.

– Lindsay O’Connell

And This One

Somedays, I grow tired of life,

and long, for the next great adventure.

Finally, If You’re Waiting To Pack Your Bags And Go…

Twenty years from now

You’ll be more disappointed

By the things you didn’t do

Than by the ones you did do.

So throw off the bowlines.

Sail away from the harbor.

Catch the trade winds in your sails.

– H. Jackson Brown, from P.S. I Love You (well, sort of. It’s a quote from his mother).

Did you enjoy these travel poems? Let me know in the comments below which one of these travel poems was your favorite! Mine is definitely #5, but I love them all!

FOR THOSE WHO LOVE POETRY

PENGUIN CLASSICS

Complete Poems

Dorothy Parker’s poem is our favorite on this list. If you loved it as much as we did, here’s a complete collection of her works

APPLEWOOD BOOKS

Song Of The Open Road

a hardcover edition of Walt Whitman’s poem about journeying, adventure, and finding yourself

ATRIA BOOKS

The Dark Between Stars

for those who devoured Milk & Honey and Pillow Thoughts and want to read Atticus’ contribution to the Insta-popular poetry format

Editor-In-Chief

Anshula grew up with a love of stories and places. Thirty-five states and 100 bookstores later, she's made her hobbit home in Middle Tennessee. Her Tookish side still takes over and leaves her chasing window seats, literary destinations, adventure books, sunrise coffee, and indie bookshops. She's appeared as a travel source on HuffPost, Reader's Digest, and MSN.

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I love Atticus.

How beautiful, Anshula! These are so inspiring.

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I love these, thanks. Time to share to my friends on FB!

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16 Best Poems About Travel and Life

December 17, 2021 by Tracey Nesbitt

We have compiled some of the best poems about travel into one post. They represent a wide variety of views and are taken from different time periods. They raise questions, share the joys of travel, and remind us to not take it for granted. Enjoy!

Table of Contents

If You Were in Cairo by Simon Constam

Members of the Solo Traveler Insiders , our premium membership program, were treated to a reading of this poem by the author at a recent virtual event.

If You Were in Cairo

If you were in Cairo, and I in Kampala; if you took to Phoenix, and I to Havana; if you sojourned in Saigon, and I in Phnom Penh even that short distance would deeply offend. And seeing as how I’d want to stay close to you, I’d find every which way to stay in touch with you.

If you moved to Tuvalu, to live or to work, And email was stalled and the phones didn’t work. I’d train clever pigeons to soar up above, to faithfully reach you with my missives of love.

I’d vouchsafe a letter with a monk in a monastery. I’d entrust my love note to an Amazon missionary. I’d hire a Sherpa to mountain climb after you on Everest, on Lhotse, Nanga Parbat or K2…

I would do anything to keep myself close to you. I’d learn Swahili, Hindi, and even Urdu. No hurdle of language I’d have to confront, could ever deter my untiring want.

You can travel as far and as long as you like by plane, train, or boat, by car or by bike. I’d find a way, some way, to reach out to you, I’d even use snail mail if I absolutely had to.

If you flew supersonically out into the blue, I’d radio the pilot to tell you I love you. If you pined for space travel and lived in the shuttle, and our back and forth was a quite public muddle, and officials below and your crewmates above had all grown quite tired of such raging, unending, fulsome, embarrassing love,

no matter the trouble I’d have surely incurred, I’d carry on calling, could not be deterred by pleading from NASA, complaints or protests, they’d have to come get me, put me under arrest.

If not-talking was something that you took a vow for, I’d read to you, sing to you, whatever you’d need me to. I’d learn to lip read and learn to sign too There’s really no end to what I would do.

I’d follow you through darkness. I’d follow you through rain. My daily attention might drive you insane.

Have I made my point clear? You have nothing to fear I’m resourceful enough to keep loving you.

So great is my love, I am indefatigable . When it comes to you, love, I can’t stop loving you!

Viaggiate by Gio Evan

I recently came across this poem when a friend shared it on Facebook. From what I can piece together (most information I could find about him is written in Italian, so I am at the mercy of Google Translate) Gio Evan spent about eight years traveling around India, South America, and Europe by bike. Perhaps the inspiration for this piece came from his journey. His website describes him as a “multifaceted artist, writer and poet, philosopher, humorist, performer, songwriter and street artist.”

New poems about travel don't come along every day, so this one is a nice surprise. Evan encourages us to travel for learning and personal growth, greater understanding and acceptance, and a feeling of connection to the world.

As I was unable to find an official English translation, I have posted the poem in the original Italian, straight from Evan's Facebook page, alongside the English version I first read online.

Travel/Viaggiate

Consolation by Billy Collins

This poem, by former US Poet Laureate Billy Collins, who was the first recipient of the Mark Twain Prize for Humor in Poetry, celebrates the time we spend at home. It encourages us to appreciate our time not traveling as much as our time traveling. It takes on a slightly different meaning now, at a time when none of us can travel

Consolation

How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer, wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns. How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets, fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots. There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous domes and there is no need to memorize a succession of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon. No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon's little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass. How much better to command the simple precinct of home than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica. Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps? Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera eager to eat the world one monument at a time? Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice, I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning paper, all language barriers down, rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way. And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner. I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window. It is enough to climb back into the car as if it were the great car of English itself and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off down a road that will never lead to Rome, not even Bologna.

Dislocation by Simon Constam

People who don't travel a lot don't always understand how hard it can be. They often mistake traveling for taking a holiday. But they are very different things. Traveling, especially long term, challenges and stretches one in many ways. Time constraints on short trips can cause you to explore from morning to night, returning at the end exhausted yet ready to do it again the next day.

Dislocation

I envy those who envy me for traveling. Sometimes I sit on a foreign street in a busy cafe, imagining you wishing you were here, feeling for the first time the thrilling flush of wanting to be elsewhere, the frisson of happiness that wishes bring. And so I sit quietly knowing that now it’s time to figure out just what it is I meant to do here.

Of this poem about travel, Simon says: “I wrote Dislocation back when I was 19, in the middle of my round-the-world trip. The meaning and purpose of travel is not always evident. To build confidence, some would say. To open one's eyes, say others. And some would say to realize their destinies. I would often sit at an outdoor cafe wondering what it was exactly I was doing while the wheels and gears of everyday were spinning relentlessly at home.”

You can follow Simon on Instagram @dailyferocity where he publishes a new aphorism every day, or sign up to receive them by email .

Learning to Travel by Julene Tripp Weaver

Traveling long-term allows you to travel slowly. In fact, it demands that you travel slowly. And what are the benefits of that? It's about learning the language, cooking with an old woman, having children knock on your door when something exciting is happening. How wonderful.

But then, in this poem by Julene Tripp Weaver, the circus comes to town. New opportunities arise. And the traveler picks up and follows the opportunities “beneath the throw of the knife”. They ignore the risk of leaving what is comfortable and explore new horizons.

Learning to Travel

She will learn French, enough to greet and shop become known. A French baker befriends her. After a long summer she stays on into the fall writes poems, picks wild herbs. An old woman cooks with her. They sit in silence while the sun sets. In the evening she lights candles, when hungry they share bread and cheese. A circus comes to town, young children knock on her door to watch elephants parade in the street. Tents are raised. A knife thrower invites her for his act. The wind of flying knives pulses dreams of moving on with the circus until there is no question. She will go. She pulls together a bag says goodbye to the old woman to the baker, to the children, moves to the next town beneath the throw of the knife.

Majorca by John Cooper Clarke

Instead of treating travel with reverence, this poem offers another truth about travel which is not quite, well, reverential. As Clarke says in his intro, it's about holiday packages. Love them or hate them, most of us can relate to this poem in one way or another.

Don't miss hearing Clarke perform this piece himself by scrolling to the bottom of the poem.

fasten your seatbelts says a voice inside the plane you can't hear no noise engines made by rolls royce take your choice …make mine majorca check out the parachutes can't be found alert those passengers they'll be drowned a friendly mug says “settle down” when i came round i was gagged and bound …for Majorca and the eyes caress the neat hostess her unapproachable flip finesse i found the meaning of the word excess they've got little bags if you wanna make a mess i fancied Cuba but it cost me less …to Majorca (Whose blonde sand fondly kisses the cool fathoms of the blue mediteranean) they packed us into the white hotel you could still smell the polycell wet white paint in the air-conditioned cells the waiter smelled of fake Chanel Gaulois… Garlic as well says if i like… i can call him “Miguel” …well really i got drunk with another fella who'd just brought up a previous paella he wanted a fight but said they were yella' …in Majorca the guitars rang and the castinets clicked the dancer's stamped and the dancer's kicked it's likely if you sang in the street you'd be nicked the double diamond flowed like sick mother's pride, tortilla and chips pneumatic drills when you try to kip …in Majorca a stomach infection put me in the shade must have been something in the lemonade but by the balls of franco i paid had to pawn my bucket and spade next year I'll take the international brigade …to Majorca

Questions of Travel by Elizabeth Bishop

Why do we travel? Is it, as Elizabeth Bishop suggests, a lack of imagination?

Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979) is considered one of the great American poets of the 20th century. Enjoy this beautiful poem about travel.

Questions of Travel

There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams hurry too rapidly down to the sea, and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion, turning to waterfalls under our very eyes. –For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains, aren't waterfalls yet, in a quick age or so, as ages go here, they probably will be. But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling, the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships, slime-hung and barnacled.

Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed at home and thought of here? Where should we be today? Is it right to be watching strangers in a play in this strangest of theatres? What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around? The tiniest green hummingbird in the world? To stare at some inexplicable old stonework, inexplicable and impenetrable, at any view, instantly seen and always, always delightful? Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too? And have we room for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?

But surely it would have been a pity not to have seen the trees along this road, really exaggerated in their beauty, not to have seen them gesturing like noble pantomimists, robed in pink. –Not to have had to stop for gas and heard the sad, two-noted, wooden tune of disparate wooden clogs carelessly clacking over a grease-stained filling-station floor. (In another country the clogs would all be tested. Each pair there would have identical pitch.) –A pity not to have heard the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird who sings above the broken gasoline pump in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque: three towers, five silver crosses. –Yes, a pity not to have pondered, blurr'dly and inconclusively, on what connection can exist for centuries between the crudest wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden cages. –Never to have studied history in the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages. –And never to have had to listen to rain so much like politicians' speeches: two hours of unrelenting oratory and then a sudden golden silence in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:

“Is it lack of imagination that makes us come to imagined places, not just stay at home? Or could Pascal have been not entirely right about just sitting quietly in one's room?

Continent, city, country, society: the choice is never wide and never free. And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home, wherever that may be?”

For the Traveler by John O’Donohue

Aren't poetry and travel simply two different modes of exploring the world? Of learning who we are, what we believe, and how it all fits together?

When we are surrounded by family and friends, we are subject to their expectations of us. Our behavior, even our thoughts, are circumscribed by a desire for acceptance. Traveling solo you have time to discover who you are, what's really in your heart, when no one is looking.

John O'Donohue was born in 1956 and died in 2008. An Irish scholar, philosopher, priest, and poet, his first published work was “Anam Cara” which holds a wonderful quote for solo travelers:

“When you cease to fear your solitude, a new creativity awakens in you. Your forgotten or neglected wealth begins to reveal itself. You come home to yourself and learn to rest within. Thoughts are our inner senses. Infused with silence and solitude, they bring out the mystery of inner landscape.”

For the Traveler

Every time you leave home, Another road takes you Into a world you were never in. New strangers on other paths await. New places that have never seen you Will startle a little at your entry. Old places that know you well Will pretend nothing Changed since your last visit. When you travel, you find yourself Alone in a different way, More attentive now To the self you bring along, Your more subtle eye watching You abroad; and how what meets you Touches that part of the heart That lies low at home: How you unexpectedly attune To the timbre in some voice, Opening in conversation You want to take in To where your longing Has pressed hard enough Inward, on some unsaid dark, To create a crystal of insight You could not have known You needed To illuminate Your way. When you travel, A new silence Goes with you, And if you listen, You will hear What your heart would Love to say. A journey can become a sacred thing: Make sure, before you go, To take the time To bless your going forth, To free your heart of ballast So that the compass of your soul Might direct you toward The territories of spirit Where you will discover More of your hidden life, And the urgencies That deserve to claim you. May you travel in an awakened way, Gathered wisely into your inner ground; That you may not waste the invitations Which wait along the way to transform you. May you travel safely, arrive refreshed, And live your time away to its fullest; Return home more enriched, and free To balance the gift of days which call you.

The Lady in 38C by Lori Jakiela

Traveling on a regular basis, flight attendants have a chance to see the world. Serving hundreds of people every day from different cultures, different economic classes, genders, ages, and every other attribute that contributes to making individuals unique, they are positioned to observe and appreciate the human condition.

Poet Lori Jakiela worked for Delta Air Lines for six years. She is now a professor at The University of Pittsburgh-Greensburg.

This poem is about unadulterated joy. Using her experience as a flight attendant, Jakiela focuses us on how we often miss the joy that life has to offer.

The Lady in 38C

The Lady in 38 C gets confused. She thinks I'm her nurse. “Nurse!” she yells. “My finger!” So I bring her a band-aid and put it on even though she's fine. “Oh thank you nurse!” she yells. “You're a good one.” She winks and smiles and the woman next to her glares into her computer. I think the old lady's charming. She's 86, still pretty. Her eyes are blue. Her hair is a cloud. She looks exactly like what's outside. She's the only air in this cabin, the only light. “Nurse!” she yells, and I look back over the sad heads, eggs in a carton, faces pressed against the mite-ridden blankets and pillows they fought for, and there she is, beaming. “Nurse,” she says. “Where are we?” I take her hand and look out the window. I scratch my head, smile and say, “Somewhere over Idunno.” She's the only passenger who's ever gotten that joke. Up here, nearly everyone is miserable. I count on small joys to get by. The woman in 38C says, “Oh, Nurse!” and the woman next to her who probably thinks we're somewhere over Idaho, that wonderland of Hemingway and golden potatoes, rolls her eyes and bangs the computer keys until the seatbelt sign goes on and the captain says, “We'll be experiencing weather.” which is what people say instead of scary things like storm and turbulence and pretty soon the plane is bouncing and the woman with the computer grips her armrest while the old lady throws her arms up like she's on a roller coaster and yells, “They should charge extra for this!”

The World Won’t Miss You for a While by Kathryn Simmonds

Perhaps the world will continue turning if you take a break now and then. And, just maybe, on your return you’ll make a better contribution to it.

In this poem, Kathryn Simmonds, a British poet born in 1972 illustrates that stepping off the planet is not just for busy Type A personalities. It is for Hare Krishnas, sous chefs, and apprentice pharmacists. It is for everyone.

The World Won’t Miss You for a While

Lie down with me you hillwalkers and rest, untie your boots and separate your toes, ignore the compass wavering north/north west. Quit trailing through the overcrowded streets with tinkling bells, you child of Hare Krishna. Hush. Unfurl your saffron robes. How sweet the grass. And you, photographer of wars, lie down and cap your lens. Ambassador, take off your dancing shoes. There are no laws by which you must abide oh blushing boy with Stanley knife, no county magistrates are waiting here to dress you down: employ yourself with cutting up these wild flowers as you like. Sous chef with baby guinea fowl to stuff, surveillance officer with hours to fill, and anorexic weighing up a meal, lie down. Girl riding to an interview, turn back before they force you to reveal your hidey holes. Apprentice pharmacist, leave carousels of second generation happy pills. The long term sad. And journalist with dreams, forget the man from Lancashire who lost his tongue, the youth who found it, kept it quivering in a matchbox for a year.

3 Poems About Travel by Sheenagh Pugh

Ah, if the roads we take every day could offer us the surprises, even on occasion, that travel delivers.

In this first poem about travel by Sheenagh Pugh, a British poet (originally from Wales) who says in her biography “I have been accused of being ‘populist’ and ‘too accessible,’ both of which I hope are true,” we are offered a road to explore what we don't know. To see what could be. What could happen.

Travel cannot always be on our agenda but we can still look around blind corners for new discoveries.

What If This Road

What if this road, that has held no surprises these many years, decided not to go home after all; what if it could turn left or right with no more ado than a kite-tail? What if its tarry skin were like a long, supple bolt of cloth, that is shaken and rolled out, and takes a new shape from the contours beneath? And if it chose to lay itself down in a new way; around a blind corner, across hills you must climb without knowing what's on the other side; who would not hanker to be going, at all risks? Who wants to know a story's end, or where a road will go?

Many of us spend too much time documenting our travels rather than experiencing them.

We could live more fully in the moment. We could savor the experience to learn more deeply and remember more clearly.

In this second poem by Sheenagh Pugh, we are advised that notes and images offer little upon our return.

The Opportune Moment

If you were waiting for the opportune moment, that was it” – Capt Jack Sparrow, Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl When you go ashore in that town, take neither a camera nor a notebook. However many photographs you upload of that street, the smell of almond paste will be missing; the harbour will not sound of wind slapping on chains. You will read notes like “Sami church”, later, and know you saw nothing, never put it where you could find it again, were never really there. When you go ashore in the small port with the rusty trawlers, there will be fur hawkers who all look like Genghis Khan on a market stall, crumbling pavements, roses frozen in bud, an altar with wool hangings, vessels like canal ware, a Madonna with a Russian doll face. When you go ashore, take nothing but the knowledge that where you are, you never will be again

There are two parts to this final poem about travel by Sheenagh Pugh. The first projects a future when our travel is not around the world but to Earth. It muses on a time when we have ruined our planet to the point that we no longer live here and it has become a destination suitable only for the “young and fit”. Do our travels contribute to this potential future?

The second part urges the reader to take it all in deeply, with all your senses. This applies equally to today's travelers as tomorrow’s. It explores the possible ways of experiencing a new place. It is gorgeous.

Do You Think We’ll Ever Get to See Earth, Sir?

I hear they're hoping to run trips one day, for the young and fit, of course. I don't see much use in it myself; there'll be any number of places you can't land, because they're still toxic, and even in the relatively safe bits you won't see what it was; what it could be. I can't fancy a tour through the ruins of my home with a party of twenty-five and a guide to tell me what to see. But if you should see some beautiful thing, some leaf, say, damascened with frost, some iridescence on a pigeon's neck, some stone, some curve, some clear water; look at it as if you were made of eyes, as if you were nothing but an eye, lidless and tender, to be probed and scorched by extreme light. Look at it with your skin, with the small hairs on the back of your neck. If it is well-shaped, look at it with your hands; if it has fragrance, breathe it into yourself; if it tastes sweet, put your tongue to it. Look at it as a happening, a moment; let nothing of it go unrecorded, map it as if it were already passing. Look at it with the inside of your head, look at it for later, look at it for ever, and look at it once for me.

Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman

The open road holds the pleasures of solitude as well as surprising adventures.

Walt Whitman (American poet, essayist, and journalist, 1819-1892) wrote his “Song of the Open Road” long before the automobile was invented. But somehow, that notion of the open road was already present in the American psyche. This is a massive poem, epic in nature.

Song of the Open Road

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, Strong and content I travel the open road. The earth, that is sufficient, I do not want the constellations any nearer, I know they are very well where they are, I know they suffice for those who belong to them. (Still here I carry my old delicious burdens, I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go, I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them, I am fill'd with them, and I will fill them in return.) 2 You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe that much unseen is also here. Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial, The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas'd, the illiterate person, are not denied; The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the drunkard's stagger, the laughing party of mechanics, The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping couple, The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town, They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted, None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me. 3 You air that serves me with breath to speak! You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape! You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers! You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides! I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me. You flagg'd walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges! You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined side! you distant ships! You rows of houses! you window-pierc'd facades! you roofs! You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards! You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much! You doors and ascending steps! you arches! You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings! From all that has touch'd you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me, From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me. 4 The earth expanding right hand and left hand, The picture alive, every part in its best light, The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted, The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of the road. O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me? Do you say Venture not–if you leave me you are lost? Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and undenied, adhere to me? O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you, You express me better than I can express myself, You shall be more to me than my poem. I think heroic deeds were all conceiv'd in the open air, and all free poems also, I think I could stop here myself and do miracles, I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me, I think whoever I see must be happy. 5 From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines, Going where I list, my own master total and absolute, Listening to others, considering well what they say, Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me. I inhale great draughts of space, The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine. I am larger, better than I thought, I did not know I held so much goodness. All seems beautiful to me, can repeat over to men and women You have done such good to me I would do the same to you, I will recruit for myself and you as I go, I will scatter myself among men and women as I go, I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them, Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me, Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me. 6 Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear it would not amaze me, Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear'd it would not astonish me. Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons, It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth. Here a great personal deed has room, (Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men, Its effusion of strength and will overwhelms law and mocks all authority and all argument against it.) Here is the test of wisdom, Wisdom is not finally tested in schools, Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it, Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof, Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content, Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things; Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul. Now I re-examine philosophies and religions, They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents. Here is realization, Here is a man tallied–he realizes here what he has in him, The past, the future, majesty, love–if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them. Only the kernel of every object nourishes; Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me? Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me? Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion'd, it is apropos; Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers? Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls? 7 Here is the efflux of the soul, The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower'd gates, ever provoking questions, These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they? Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood? Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank? Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me? (I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and always drop fruit as I pass;) What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers? What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side? What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I walk by and pause? What gives me to be free to a woman's and man's good-will? what gives them to be free to mine? 8 The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness, I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times, Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged. Here rises the fluid and attaching character, The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman, (The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.) Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old, From it falls distill'd the charm that mocks beauty and attainments, Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact. 9 Allons! whoever you are come travel with me! Traveling with me you find what never tires. The earth never tires, The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first, Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop'd, I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell. Allons! we must not stop here, However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here, However shelter'd this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here, However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while. 10 Allons! the inducements shall be greater, We will sail pathless and wild seas, We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail. Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements, Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity; Allons! from all formules! From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests. The stale cadaver blocks up the passage–the burial waits no longer. Allons! yet take warning! He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance, None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health, Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself, Only those may come who come in sweet and determin'd bodies, No diseas'd person, no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here. (I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes, We convince by our presence.) 11 Listen! I will be honest with you, I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes, These are the days that must happen to you: You shall not heap up what is call'd riches, You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve, You but arrive at the city to which you were destin'd, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call'd by an irresistible call to depart, You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you, What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting, You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach'd hands toward you. 12 Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them! They too are on the road–they are the swift and majestic men–they are the greatest women, Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas, Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land, Habitues of many distant countries, habitues of far-distant dwellings, Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers, Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore, Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children, Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins, Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it, Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases, Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days, Journeyers gayly with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain'd manhood, Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass'd, content, Journeyers with their own sublime old age of manhood or womanhood, Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe, Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death. 13 Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless, To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights, To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to, Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys, To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it, To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it, To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for you, To see no being, not God's or any, but you also go thither, To see no possession but you may possess it, enjoying all without labor or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it, To take the best of the farmer's farm and the rich man's elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens, To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through, To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go, To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts, To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you, To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls. All parts away for the progress of souls, All religion, all solid things, arts, governments–all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe. Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance. Forever alive, forever forward, Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied, Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men, They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go, But I know that they go toward the best–toward something great. Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth! You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you. Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen! It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it. Behold through you as bad as the rest, Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people, Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash'd and trimm'd faces, Behold a secret silent loathing and despair. No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession, Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes, Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors, In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly, Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bedroom, everywhere, Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones, Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers, Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself, Speaking of any thing else but never of itself. 14 Allons! through struggles and wars! The goal that was named cannot be countermanded. Have the past struggles succeeded? What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature? Now understand me well–it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary. My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion, He going with me must go well arm'd, He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions. 15 Allons! the road is before us! It is safe–I have tried it–my own feet have tried it well–be not detain'd! Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd! Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn'd! Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher! Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law. Camerado, I give you my hand! I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law; Will you give me yourselp. will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

Why Do I Travel? Author Unknown

It is on the road that I am a poet, an ambassador, a dancer, medicine woman, an angel and even a genius

Traveling solo provides an opportunity to explore that aspect of your life which may be overshadowed by responsibilities and the expectations of others. It is an opportunity to live as a poet, an ambassador, a dancer, or whatever role you would, in a perfect world, take on. In doing so you will be that much closer to a well-earned label of genius.

We’ve been unable to confirm the author of this poem about travel. Perhaps Sana Musama or Musasama, but we can’t be certain. Regardless, it's a beautiful and significant piece of writing. If you have more details on the poet, please let us know so we can properly acknowledge them.

Why do I travel?

It is on the road that my inner voice speaks the loudest and my heart beats the strongest. It is on the road that I take extra pride in my wooly hair, full features and lineage. It is on the road that I develop extra senses and the hairs on my arms stand up and say “Sana, don't go there”, and I listen. It's when I safety pin my money to my underclothes and count it a million times before I go to sleep, It is on the road that I am a poet, an ambassador, a dancer, medicine woman, an angel and even a genius. It's on the road that I am fearless and unstoppable and if necessary ball up my fist and fight back. It is on the road that I talk to my deceased parents and they speak back It's on the road that I reprimand myself, and set new goals, refuel, stop and begin again. It is on the road that I experience what freedom truly is. It is my travel that has transformed me making me a citizen of the world. When my humanness, compassion and affection are raised to a new level and I share unconditionally.

The Return by Geneen Marie Haugen

Single people are frequently the butt of jokes and jibes about “getting lucky”. But this term takes on a whole new meaning through solo travel, as it does in this poem. Here, one gets lucky when they return from travel “trailing snake scales, wing fragments and the musk of Earth and moon”.

Not everyone understands the need to travel and fewer still understand the need of solo travelers to head out on their own. By traveling solo, you can connect more deeply with a place and its people than when you are distracted by a companion. You get close to the ground, to the “musk of the earth”. You will be more affected by travel.

The poet, Geneen Marie Haugen is a writer, wilderness wanderer, and scholar.

Some day, if you are lucky, you'll return from a thunderous journey trailing snake scales, wing fragments and the musk of Earth and moon. Eyes will examine you for signs of damage, or change and you, too, will wonder if your skin shows traces of fur, or leaves, if thrushes have built a nest of your hair, if Andromeda burns from your eyes. Do not be surprised by prickly questions from those who barely inhabit their own fleeting lives, who barely taste their own possibility, who barely dream. If your hands are empty, treasureless, if your toes have not grown claws, if your obedient voice has not become a wild cry, a howl, you will reassure them. We warned you, they might declare, there is nothing else, no point, no meaning, no mystery at all, just this frantic waiting to die. And yet, they tremble, mute, afraid you've returned without sweet elixir for unspeakable thirst, without a fluent dance or holy language to teach them, without a compass bearing to a forgotten border where no one crosses without weeping for the terrible beauty of galaxies and granite and bone. They tremble, hoping your lips hold a secret, that the song your body now sings will redeem them, yet they fear your secret is dangerous, shattering, and once it flies from your astonished mouth, they — like you — must disintegrate before unfolding tremulous wings.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

This may be one of the most well known poems about travel.

In travel, in life, is the road less traveled more courageous? Is it better? Maybe. Maybe not. But whatever course you take it will make all the difference.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I marked the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

Die Slowly by Martha Medeiros

This poem delivers a most positive outlook on life from the most negative angle possible.

Solo travel helps you flip on its head all that Martha Medeiros says contributes to a slow death. It causes you to change routines in your own rhythm, challenge yourself, build self-esteem, ask questions, explore with curiosity, and expand your world.

We all deserve splendid happiness. I hope you find yours.

He who becomes the slave of habit, who follows the same routes every day, who never changes pace, who does not risk and change the color of his clothes, who does not speak and does not experience, dies slowly. He or she who shuns passion, who prefers black on white, dotting ones i's rather than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer, that turn a yawn into a smile, that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings, dies slowly. He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy, who is unhappy at work, who does not risk certainty for uncertainty, to thus follow a dream, those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives, die slowly. He who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself, she who does not find grace in herself, dies slowly. He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem, who does not allow himself to be helped, who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops, dies slowly. He or she who abandons a project before starting it, who fails to ask questions on subjects he doesn't know, he or she who doesn't reply when they are asked something they do know, dies slowly. Let's try and avoid death in small doses, reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing. Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness

What are your favorite poems about travel? Tell us about them and their meaning for you in the comments section below.

Thinking about hitting the open road? Check out our Solo Road Trip category . Do you have a solo travel story to tell? Share your photos and the story of your trip here.

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Travel poems that capture the joy of exploration and inspire journeys

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Like the blast of a ship’s whistle or the click-click-clack of train wheels, travel can be insistent. The second you leave home it starts demanding that you tell its story. It tugs at your elbow. It turns into a daily pest.

What you’re doing should be recorded! Snap photos! Post those views on Facebook! Jot things down!

Although there are lots of ways to tell the story of a trip, travelers tend to pour their experiences into prose. Think articles. Think diary entries. Think blogs. With everyone these days on the hunt for information — for tips and lists and facts — the poetry of travel has often been neglected.

To address that, the Travel section in September asked readers to submit their favorite poems about being away from home along with a few lines about how poetry has helped to open up destinations, deliver a smile or a smirk, or capture the sensations of life on the road.

I combed through the more than 70 responses — some from as far away as India, Sweden, Spain and Scotland — and found myself in the middle of a forest of old favorite lines and many more new ones I had never explored. Below is a sampling of submissions. Thanks to all who contributed.

Perhaps because its images are so exotic, three readers submitted John Masefield’s “Cargoes” as an example of how words and their sounds can create a longing for far-off places — even if you don’t catch their meaning right away. “Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir” begins this short poem by Masefield, who was England’s poet laureate during the mid-20th century:

Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,

With a cargo of ivory,

And apes and peacocks,

Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

“This pick may seem very old-fashioned,” said Elisa Petrini of New York, “but as a child growing up in Detroit in the early 1960s, I read this poem over and over and dreamed of seeing the world. I still know it by heart.”

Patricia Ingram of Glasgow, Scotland, agreed: “‘Cargoes’ captured my imagination at an early age, maybe 10 or 11 at primary school. Some of the words were exotic, and I know now that it was also the rhythm of the verses that I liked and the touches of alliteration in each one. Thoughts of ships on the ocean and new horizons seemed worlds away from my life in the city.”

Lynne Osborne of South Pasadena has her eye on going places by plane rather than by ship. She recommended “Takeoff” by Timothy Steele, a poet and professor of English at Cal State Los Angeles. “Our jet storms down the runway, tilts up, lifts,” wrote Steele. “We’re airborne, and each second we see more.”

Soon, like passengers pushed into the sky, we get to these lines:

How little weight

The world has as it swiftly drops away!

How quietly the mind climbs to this height

As now, the seat-belt sign turned off, a flight

Attendant rises to negotiate

The steep aisle to a curtained service bay.

For Osborne, Steele’s poem hits home because he “talks about an aspect of travel that is shared by so many of us.” Air travel, for Osborne, is “a transcendent experience, but we as travelers often focus on the minutiae of it — the seats that strangle us, the neighbor who snores, the flight attendant who rises to negotiate the steep aisle to the curtained service bay.’”

Among the readers who couldn’t resist Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic “Travel,” from “A Child’s Garden of Verses,” is Janet Cornwell of Manhattan Beach, who said its language is “rich with wanderlust.” The poem includes these far-flung images:

Eastern cities, miles about,

Are with mosque and minaret

Among sandy gardens set,

And the rich goods from near and far

Hang for sale in the bazaar;—

Where the Great Wall round China goes,

And on one side the desert blows,

And with bell and voice and drum

Cities on the other hum;—

Where are forests hot as fire,

Wide as England, tall as a spire….

Stevenson’s poem “had me at the opening lines,” wrote food critic Mimi Sheraton of New York: “I should like to rise and go / Where the golden apples grow.” Said Sheraton: “I assume I first read it, or had it read to me, when I was about 5 growing up in Brooklyn. The result is my life as a food and travel writer, rising and going in search of golden apples for six decades and still counting.”

Gillian Kendall of Holmes Beach, Fla., didn’t need to deliberate for long before sending Gerald Stern’s “Kissing Stieglitz Good-Bye” because, she noted, “I’ve been carrying [it] around the world with me since it appeared in, I think, the New Yorker in about 1980.” “Every city in America is approached / through a work of art, usually a bridge /…” begins the poem. “Pittsburgh has a tunnel — / you don’t know it — that takes you through the rivers / and under the burning hills.”

… Some have little parks —

San Francisco has a park. Albuquerque

is beautiful from a distance; it is purple

at five in the evening. New York is Egyptian,

especially from the little rise on the hill…

“When I first read this poem, as an undergraduate at Rutgers University,” Kendall said, “I had never heard of Stieglitz … but I’d lived in New Jersey for several years and I was awfully familiar with the tunnels and bridges that connected the unglamorous state with the glittering city beyond.... This poem combines beauty and sadness and travel, all of which I was just beginning to understand as a teenager.”

Several readers chose poems not because they describe particular destinations or ways to get around, but, as Carissa Green of Grand Forks, N.D., put it, “for the tension … between the experience of traveling and the longing for home.” Green loves Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “Questions of Travel” so much that, like Kendall, she remembers that “there was even a time in my life when I’d copy the poem out longhand on loose-leaf paper and then tuck it into my suitcase when I went on a trip as kind of a talisman of words for the emotions and stress of a journey.”

In the poem, Bishop might have been thinking about Green’s “tension” when she asked: “Should we have stayed at home and thought of here? / Where should we be today?...”

What childishness is it that while there’s a breath of life

in our bodies, we are determined to rush

to see the sun the other way around?

The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?...

Oh, must we dream our dreams

and have them, too?

Picking up on a similar idea, Tim Lynch of Collingswood, N.J., talked about “the two extremities of travel: the leaving and the coming back” while focusing on his favorite travel poem, “The Peninsula,” by Irish poet and Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney. “When you have nothing more to say, just drive” Heaney wrote,

“For a day all round the peninsula…”

And drive back home, still with nothing to say

Except that now you will uncode all landscapes

By this: things founded clean on their own shapes,

Water and ground in their extremity.

Linda Alexander of San Pedro also thinks of home when she thinks of travel. She chose the poem “Vagabond’s House” by Don Blanding, explaining that it “speaks of the house its subject will build and fill with cherished items from travels.” “When I have a house … as I sometime may,” wrote Blanding, who, in the 1920s and ‘30s, was sometimes thought of as Hawaii’s unofficial poet laureate, “I’ll suit my fancy in every way. / I’ll fill it with things that have caught my eye / In drifting from Iceland to Molokai…”

A paperweight of meteorite

That seared and scorched the sky one night,

A moro kris … my paper knife …

Once slit the throat of a Rajah’s wife.

The beams of my house will be fragrant wood

That once in a teeming jungle stood…

“My father enjoyed reading [this] aloud to me as a young girl with his beautiful sonorous voice,” Alexander said. “The poem has inspired me to travel and explore and I have shared it with my four grandsons whom I hope to also inspire.”

There are those who always daydream of future trips, whether they’re in the middle of a current adventure or in an armchair surrounded by memorabilia — a bit like the speaker in Blanding’s “Vagabond’s House.”

Sarah Burns of Seattle wrote that one of her many favorite poems about travel is “May 2” by David Lehman “because it motivates me to immediately begin planning my next trip.” “Let’s go to Paris in November,” Lehman wrote:

it’s raining and we read

the Tribune at La Rotonde

our hotel room has a big

bathtub I knew you’d like

At the end of the poem, the speaker seems to jump into his own dream of being in Paris, crashing words together in anticipation, expressing a need to get moving like no piece of prose could:

“And we can be a couple

of unknown Americans what

are we waiting for let’s go.”

Does that sum it up for those who are always imagining new trips? Or for those who are endlessly planning? “The last line,” said Burns, “[is] just perfect.”

Readers’ favorite poems of travel:

“Song of the Open Road ” by Walt Whitman is in various collections such as “Selected Poems by Walt Whitman” (Dover Thrift Editions, 1991). Full text at bit.ly/1yQxCA2 .

“Ulysses ” by Lord Tennyson is included in “Alfred Tennyson: The Major Works” (Oxford World’s Classics, 2009). Full text at bit.ly/1HhuuTE and other websites.

“The Road Not Taken” is included in “The Road Not Taken: A Selection of Robert Frost’s Poems” (Owl/Holt Paperbacks, 2002). Full text at bit.ly/1hOnHUn .

“Cargoes ” by John Masefield is from the collection “Salt-Water Poems and Ballads” (Nabu Press, 2010). Full text at bit.ly/1uNgDiN .

“Takeoff ” by Timothy Steele is from “The Color Wheel” (Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994). Full text at bit.ly/1t2S9xK and other websites.

“Travel” by Robert Louis Stevenson is included in “A Child’s Garden of Verses: A Classic Illustrated Edition” by Robert Louis Stevenson (Chronicle Books, 1989). Full text at bit.ly/1p1xVb4 and other websites.

“Kissing Stieglitz Good-Bye ” by Gerald Stern is from his “Early Collected Poems: 1965-1992” (W. W. Norton, 2010). Full text at bit.ly/1ubZtqa and other websites.

“Questions of Travel ” by Elizabeth Bishop is included in several collections, including “The Complete Poems: 1927-1979” by Elizabeth Bishop (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1983). Full text at bit.ly/1F17g0j .

“The Peninsula ” by Seamus Heaney is included in several book collections, including Heaney’s “Poems 1965-1975: Death of a Naturalist / Door Into the Dark / Wintering Out / North” (Noonday Press, 1988). Full text at bit.ly/1uxS08v .

“Vagabond’s House ” by Don Blanding is from his collection “Vagabond’s House” (Applewood Books, 2002). Full text at bit.ly/1qtXMtf .

“May 2 ” by David Lehman is from the collection “The Daily Mirror: A Journal in Poetry” (Scribner, 2000). Full text at bit.ly/1uxTQ9i .

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The Most Inspiring Travel Poems

by Melissa Giroux | Last updated Feb 25, 2023 | Quotes , Travel Tips

Searching for the best poems about adventure and travel?

We created this list featuring the best travel poems so that you can find the inspiration you’re looking for.

These poems about travel are specifically written for travelers.

Without further ado, let’s take a look at these unique poems for travelers.

If Once You Have Slept On An Island

If once you have slept on an island

You’ll never be quite the same;

You may look as you looked the day before

And go by the same old name,

You may bustle about in street and shop;

You may sit at home and sew,

But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gulls

Wherever your feet may go.

You may chat with the neighbors of this and that

And close to your fire keep,

But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell

And tides beat through your sleep.

Oh, you won’t know why, and you can’t say how

Such change upon you came,

But – once you have slept on an island

You’ll never be quite the same!

Rachel Field

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth,

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Half across the world from me

Lie the lands I’ll never see-

I, whose longing lives and dies

Where a ship has sailed away;

I, that never close my eyes

But to look upon Cathay.

Things I may not know nor tell

Wait, where older waters swell;

Ways that flowered at Sappho’s tread,

Winds that sighed in Homer’s strings,

Vibrant with the singing dead,

Golden with the dust of wings.

Under deeper skies than mine,

Quiet valleys dip and shine.

Where their tender grasses heal

Ancient scars of trench and tomb

I shall never walk: nor kneel

Where the bones of poets bloom.

If I seek a lovelier part,

Where I travel goes my heart;

Where I stray my thought must go;

With me wanders my desire.

Best to sit and watch the snow,

Turn the lock, and poke the fire.

Dorothy Parker

The Opportune Moment

When you go ashore in that town,

take neither a camera nor a notebook.

However many photographs you upload

of that street, the smell of almond paste

will be missing; the harbour will not sound

of wind slapping on chains. You will read

notes like “Sami church”, later, and know

you saw nothing, never put it where

you could find it again, were never

really there. When you go ashore

in the small port with the rusty trawlers,

there will be fur hawkers who all look

like Genghis Khan on a market stall,

crumbling pavements, roses frozen in bud,

an altar with wool hangings, vessels

like canal ware, a Madonna

with a Russian doll face. When you go

ashore, take nothing but the knowledge

that where you are, you never will be again.

Sheenagh Pugh

I Want A Life Measured

I want a life measured

in first steps on foreign soils

and deep breaths

in brand new seas.

in Welcome Signs,

each stamped

with a different name,

borders marked with metal and paint.

Show me the streets

that don’t know the music

of my meandering feet,

and I will play their song

Perfume me please

in the smells of far away,

I will never wash my hair

if it promises to stay.

in the places I haven’t gone,

short sleeps on long flights,

strange voices teaching me

new words to

describe the dawn.

Tyler Knott Gregson

Travel Poem (Untitled)

We’re all wayfaring travellers,

Trudging down our separate roads,

Hoping, wishing, praying,

Someone will come to share our load,

There’s sunburn on our shoulders,

And there are blisters on our feet,

We brave the wildest blizzards,

And the scorching summer heat,

Sometimes we find somebody,

Who is going our way too,

And while they walk beside us,

The sky seems a bit more blue,

But all roads twist and turn,

And when you reach an intersection,

It’s likely life will take them,

In the opposite direction,

But don’t give up on hoping,

When your road is a dead end,

It’s likely that you’ll find,

It’s only really just a bend,

And though the other’s roads are different,

It doesn’t mean that yours is wrong,

So pick yourself back up again,

And just keep trudging on.

Erin Hansen

The Far North

I often wonder of the Tundra,

as I watch the plains go by.

Or I’ll dream of higher mountains

that almost seem to pierce the sky.

I yearn for vaster spaces

and for roaring, winding rivers.

Or of breezes rolling forward

that leave forests full of shivers.

I hear the voice of comfort

say I shouldn’t go alone

yet I’m pulled by tugs from elsewhere

that may someday be my home.

Jesse Humman

Questions Of Travel

There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams

hurry too rapidly down to the sea,

and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops

makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,

turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.

–For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,

aren’t waterfalls yet,

in a quick age or so, as ages go here,

they probably will be.

But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling,

the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,

slime-hung and barnacled.

Think of the long trip home.

Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?

Where should we be today?

Is it right to be watching strangers in a play

in this strangest of theatres?

What childishness is it that while there’s a breath of life

in our bodies, we are determined to rush

to see the sun the other way around?

The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?

To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,

inexplicable and impenetrable,

at any view,

instantly seen and always, always delightful?

Oh, must we dream our dreams

and have them, too?

And have we room

for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?

Elizabeth Bishop

I should like to rise and go

Where the golden apples grow;–

Where below another sky

Parrot islands anchored lie,

And, watched by cockatoos and goats,

Lonely Crusoes building boats;–

Where in sunshine reaching out

Eastern cities, miles about,

Are with mosque and minaret

Among sandy gardens set,

And the rich goods from near and far

Hang for sale in the bazaar;–

Where the Great Wall round China goes,

And on one side the desert blows,

And with the voice and bell and drum,

Cities on the other hum;–

Where are forests hot as fire,

Wide as England, tall as a spire,

Full of apes and cocoa-nuts

And the negro hunters’ huts;–

Where the knotty crocodile

Lies and blinks in the Nile,

And the red flamingo flies

Hunting fish before his eyes;–

Where in jungles near and far,

Man-devouring tigers are,

Lying close and giving ear

Lest the hunt be drawing near,

Or a comer-by be seen

Swinging in the palanquin;–

Where among the desert sands

Some deserted city stands,

All its children, sweep and prince,

Grown to manhood ages since,

Not a foot in street or house,

Not a stir of child or mouse,

And when kindly falls the night,

In all the town no spark of light.

There I’ll come when I’m a man

With a camel caravan;

Light a fire in the gloom

Of some dusty dining-room;

See the pictures on the walls,

Heroes fights and festivals;

And in a corner find the toys

Of the old Egyptian boys.

Robert Louis Stevenson

Riding Alone For Thousands Of Miles

In Lijiang, the sign outside your hostel

glares: Ride alone, ride alone, ride

alone – it taunts you for the mileage

of your solitude, must be past

thousands, for you rode this plane

alone, this train alone, you’ll ride

this bus alone well into the summer night,

well into the next hamlet, town,

city, the next century, as the trees twitch

and the clouds wane and the tides

quiver and the galaxies tilt and the sun

spins us another lonely cycle, you’ll

wonder if this compass will ever change.

The sun doesn’t need more heat,

so why should you? The trees don’t need

to be close, so why should you?

Sally Wen Mao

Final Thoughts On Travel Poems

These poems for travelers are powerful and inspiring.

We hope you enjoyed our list featuring the best adventure poems.

Looking for more inspiration? Take a look at the following blog posts:

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Literary Travel , Travel Inspiration

10 travel poems that will inspire you to go.

FMTC Affiliate Disclosure: Blond Wayfarer contains affiliate links. If you make a purchase through these links, I earn a commission at no extra cost to you. This disclosure pertains to all affiliate links.

We all need beautiful travel poems.

Why? To inspire us to travel, embrace our inner bravery, and explore the world.

Take myself for instance. I love poetry. I also love travel. So it’s natural I’d write an entire post on poems that will inspire you to travel! But before I get too gushy, I have a confession to make:

It’s ironic that I love poetry so much.

When I attended college and decided to major in English, I enrolled in a poetry course for beginners, but dropped out once I learned the professor had rules against leaving the lecture to use the bathroom. (Ew).

I’ve also taken classes where poetry wasn’t open for student interpretation. Nope.

If you disagreed with the professor’s perspective, you were Dead Wrong and ought to feel sorry for bastardizing literature. So usually I’d zone out and think about my next meal, likely Wendys or a Fat Sandwich. Ahhh, memories.

Now, though, poetry inspires me. I know I probably sound like a huge nerd, but whatever, it’s the truth. I have a long list of favorite poems including travel-related ones. And what better place to share my love of travel poetry than on my blog?

Tuck in, readers! You’re in for a fun ride!

Now I hope these poems will inspire you to travel too!

Even if you hate poetry (I see you), still give these texts a fair chance. I know when I let these words flow through my mind I feel an urge to throw caution to the winds, step onto a plane, and enjoy the unknown.

Travel Poem 1: “I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud” – William Wordsworth

I’m a solo female traveler. Sure, I’ll join friends and family on trips, but I’ve visited a lot of new places alone. Just me and my backpack. I don’t mind solo travel.

If anything, exploring the world on your own terms is very, very, very liberating. You meet new people, choose your own activities, wake up whenever you want, the whole nine yards.

Besides I looooooove when no one else is around to tell me what to do. I’m an independent boss like that.

In the travel poem “I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud,” the speaker reflects on a beautiful daffodil field and all alone, he remembers their vibrant colors.

As a solo female traveler, I have a lot of memories that only I share. And yeah, I definitely reflect on those incredible times on miserable rainy NJ commutes.

Romanticism is a movement filled with travel poems of all shapes and sizes. Trust me, this isn’t the only travel poem of the era either.

Furthermore, Wordsworth wrote some of his finest poetry in the Lake District of England. I haven’t had the chance to visit (yet), but the pictures are spectacular, depicting green rolling hills and scenic lakes. No wonder he was so inspired.

Travel Poem 2. “Ulysses” – Alfred, Lord Tennyson

This travel poem is told from the perspective of Ulysses, the great ancient Greek hero of Odyssey fame. I wasn’t the biggest fan of the character when I read The Odyssey (cheater!), but I felt some sympathy for him in this poem.

In Tennyson’s work, we’ve presented with an aging and utterly bored king. Even though he’s reached old age, Ulysses decides to leave his kingdom and make new discoveries.

He simply can’t stand sitting on the throne for the rest of his life. Ulysses vows to “never yield” or give up on his journey, meaning it’s likely that he won’t return home ever again.

As you already know, I angsted a lot about turning 30. Probably too much. I worry sometimes that I’m too “old” to daydream about future trips – international and domestic – and I should just focus on, uh, more “normal” goals. Like buying a house, finding a husband, and having kids. Yawn.

But, you know what, if an adventurous life is good enough for Ulysses, then it’s good enough for me.

Ulysses is a fine piece of travel poetry even if it’s a little depressing. The lines allude Ulysses will never return to this kingdom again.

Travel Poem 3. “Song of Myself” – Walt Whitman

“Song of Myself” is a celebration of oneself. The theme absolutely shows in the title. And, as someone who practices self-love , I appreciate a travel poem that cheers on the self.

We’re often told to act humble. Not brag. To let others enjoy the spotlight. To give to charity. To remember family and friends.

Okay, I understand the importance of giving. I’ve been told I’m quite generous with my time and money, and I believe this is a positive trait of mine.

So while you don’t want to turn into an arrogant sack of awfulness, too much humbleness leads to weaker self-esteem which then leads to undermining one’s own special accomplishments.

So drop the excessive humbleness. Drop it now!

Travel requires confidence. Many people decide to travel for personal reasons such as healing a broken heart, re-discovering themselves, uncovering their family’s history, restarting their lives, etc. etc, but regardless, you need confidence to break outside your comfort zone.

“Song of Myself” is motivational and definitely can be considered a travel poem. Why? Well. This poem makes you feel as if you can do anything even travel the world.

Travel Poem 4. “The Road Not Taken” – Robert Frost

Okay, I’m entering into “cliche territory” now, but I had to include Frost’s famous travel poem on this list. It just felt incomplete without it.

In Frost’s poem, the speaker comes across two diverging paths in the woods. S/he decides to take the path not trodden by millions of others. The lesser traveled path is scarier, but the speaker treks onwards and claims the decision made a meaningful difference.

As you can see, the poem is a gigantic metaphor for making unconventional choices to benefit your life.

Solo travel especially is seen as an unusual choice but my trips have definitely molded me into the person who I am now, a stronger and more assured person. I don’t shudder at the idea of driving to new places, for example. I used to worry about getting lost all the time, but now I shrug, use my Waze app, and not worry too much.

Embark on the road not taken! You’d be surprised at what you discover on your journey.

Travel Poem 5. “Uphill” – Christina Rossetti

Eeeee, Christina Rossetti is one of my favorite Victorian poets! I’ll always hold a special place in my heart for “The Goblin Market.”

Meanwhile “Uphill” embodies all that is amazing and difficult about traveling.

The journey uphill takes the speaker the entire day, morning through night. Travel requires sleepless nights (argh, damn you, international flights), uncomfortable bus rides, and canceled train departures. I can’t count the number of times my transportation plans fell flat on its face.

Ultimately, the speaker is nervous about making it to the top of the hill. Understandable.

However, the inn at the top of the hill promises company and warm beds for all travelers. No one is ever turned away.

So, even if it’s physically and emotionally exhausting, travel also heals you beyond your wildest dreams. And the goodness of people? Wow. It still blows my mind. Both my lunch in Nazare and canceled Stockholm train prove kindness exists everywhere.

Travel Poem 6. “In a Station of the Metro” – Ezra Pound

This is one example of short travel poems. Actually, Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” is very, very, very short. My students were shocked it even counted as a poem!

This poem gives the reader an image of nameless faces at a metro station. As travelers, we all spend time using public transportation, such as buses or trains, and watch the people around us.

Come on. Who doesn’t do this? I’m at the point where I automatically connect a subway station to traveling in a brand new city, haha.

Travel Poem 7. “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” – W. B. Yeats

W. B. Yeats might have had a bit of a creepy personal life, but his travel poem “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” deeply speaks to me.

For instance, I love huge international cities, but it’s not exactly a secret that I’m not a fan of hustle and bustle. Which is why I wonder if New Jersey is a true “fit” for my lifestyle but that’s a whole other post.

Unlike my hurried daily life, travel forces me to slow down and soak up every single experience, however small and discreet.

In Yeats’s poem, the speaker mentally returns to a beautiful lake as he stares at a road on a regular ol’ day. This poem reminds us that our journeys aren’t finished when they come to an end.

The memories of dancing on a beach in Croatia or snorkeling in Iceland or paragliding in Slovenia last forever , even in the middle of a crazy day on the job. Embrace them.

Yeats certainly knew how to write a true traveling poem.

Travel Poem 8. “The Unexplorer” – Edna St. Vincent Millay

Okay, this travel poem is totally “tongue-in-cheek,” which is exactly why I love it so very much!

The speaker is a young girl who wishes to see the end of a lovely road outside her house. Her mother tells her that the road leads to the milkman’s door, and this boooooring revelation stops the girl from traveling at all. Sad, huh?

Now I’m a traveler and proudly identify as such, but I also love staying in my apartment and watching hours of television. Sometimes I can’t even be bothered to stroll five minutes down the street to buy a carton of milk.

Millay’s poem helps me feel less guilty if I have those lazy or disappointed moments at home or abroad. Score!

Travel Poem 9. “Hearthside” – Dorothy Parker

A vivid poem that describes a speaker poking at the flames, while thinking about all the beautiful places s/he will not see.

This is one of many poems that will inspire you to travel, because do you truly want to only imagine places and never see them?

Sure, “now” is never the best time to travel, but if you wait for the perfect opportunity, while twiddling your thumbs in the safety of your room, perhaps your time will never, ever come. Better to impulsively book that low cost flight to Milan than wait and regret it.

Travel Poem 10. “Travel” – Robert Louis Stevenson

We’re all familiar with Robert Louis Stevenson, especially us literary nerds with a particular fondness for the Victorian Era. I mean, I read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde when I was only sixteen and loved the creepy tale.

And now you’re telling me he wrote travel poems, too? How amazing is that?

Robert Louis Stevenson’s travel poem, simply called “Travel,” is packed with imagery of the Middle East, China, and Africa, making me want to push my comfort zone aside and branch out with my own adventures.

Why Should We Read Travel Poems?

A lot of people have a hard time grasping why poetry is valuable. And, okay, I understand their reluctance. Although I am a proud literary traveler, poetry isn’t always easy to fully comprehend especially a poem heavy in devices such as irony and allusion.

But poetry is written specifically to convey emotion. We are unable to see and touch emotion.

Read travel poem to feel the words, to dig deep and think about your upcoming journeys. Use the time for peaceful reflection, even. We don’t get enough quiet moments in our busy world.

So curl up with a pile of travel poems and read. Read til your heart is content. Much love to you.

Tell me your favorite poems – especially poems that will inspire you to travel. And remember to subscribe everywhere! Haha. I’m off to read some touching travel poems now. Be still my heart.

literary travel | poetry | wanderlust | travel inspiration | strength | confidence | vacation | solo female travel

Rachel Elizabeth

At 22, I took my first overseas trip to Bermuda. Took a break to follow the "American Dream." Had my self-esteem broken. Embarked on my first solo trip to Scotland at 26. The travel bug dug its way under my skin. I now book multiple trips a year.

2 thoughts on “ 10 Travel Poems that will Inspire You to Go ”

Thanks for the poems, I hope to travel someday and encounter all the beautiful cornerstones of the earth.

Great post! So many poems to read and unpack!

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Famous Poems About Travel: Exploring the World Through Poetry

Traveling is a transformative experience that allows us to explore new places, cultures, and perspectives. It's no wonder that poets have often been inspired by their journeys, capturing the essence of their adventures through beautiful words and vivid imagery. In this article, we will delve into some of the most famous poems about travel, showcasing the power of poetry in capturing the essence of wanderlust and the beauty of the world.

"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" by William Wordsworth

"the road not taken" by robert frost, "ode to the west wind" by percy bysshe shelley, "a red, red rose" by robert burns.

One of the most beloved travel poems ever written, "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" by William Wordsworth, takes us on a journey through the beauty of nature. The poem recounts the experience of stumbling upon a field of daffodils while walking through the Lake District in England. Wordsworth's exquisite descriptions and vivid imagination transport us to that very moment, allowing us to feel the joy and awe he felt.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" is a timeless poem that explores the concept of choices and the paths we take in life. Although not explicitly about travel, the poem resonates deeply with those who have embarked on a journey, both literally and metaphorically. Frost's contemplation of two diverging paths and the uncertainty and excitement that comes with making choices captures the essence of travel and its ability to shape our lives.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black.

Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" is a powerful poem that not only speaks to the beauty of travel but also the transformative power of nature. Shelley compares the wind's ability to carry leaves and clouds to the way ideas and words can be carried across the world. This poem serves as a reminder of the vastness of the world and the potential for change that lies within it.

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!

"A Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns is a heartfelt poem that captures the essence of love and longing through the metaphor of a rose. While not explicitly about travel, the poem's universal themes and evocative language make it a favorite among travelers and lovers alike. Burns' vivid imagery and passionate words transport us to a place of romance and wanderlust.

O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.

Poetry has the remarkable ability to transport us to different places and evoke a range of emotions. These famous poems about travel serve as a testament to the profound impact that journeys can have on our lives. Whether it's through capturing the beauty of nature, reflecting on the choices we make, or expressing the power of love, these poems allow us to explore the world through the eyes of the poets who wrote them. So, take a moment to immerse yourself in these literary voyages and let your imagination wander to the farthest corners of the globe.

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5 poems that make us feel the freedom of travel

Recently updated on July 12th, 2022 at 02:30 pm

There’s nothing quite like setting the shackles free. Leaving everything behind to stretch out our arms in ecstasy and embrace our free will. Travel sets us free. It’s why we love it. And more than anything, travel poems speak to this feeling. So to honour World Poetry Day (21 March annually) and inspire your next adventure, we’ve compiled 5 travel poems that illustrate the freedom of travel.

“It is on the road that I experience what freedom truly is”

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Freedom, by Oliver Runner

Give me the long, straight road before me,

A clear, cold day with a nipping air,

Tall, bare trees to run on beside me,

A heart that is light and free from care.

Then let me go! – I care not whither

My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be

Free as the brook that flows to the river,

Free as the river that flows to the sea.

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For the Traveler, by John O’Donohue

Every time you leave home,

Another road takes you

Into a world you were never in.

New strangers on other paths await.

New places that have never seen you

Will startle a little at your entry.

Old places that know you well

Will pretend nothing

Changed since your last visit.

When you travel, you find yourself

Alone in a different way,

More attentive now

To the self you bring along,

Your more subtle eye watching

You abroad; and how what meets you

Touches that part of the heart

That lies low at home:

How you unexpectedly attune

To the timbre in some voice,

Opening in conversation

You want to take in

To where your longing

Has pressed hard enough

Inward, on some unsaid dark,

To create a crystal of insight

You could not have known

To illuminate

When you travel,

A new silence

Goes with you,

And if you listen,

You will hear

What your heart would

Love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing:

Make sure, before you go,

To take the time

To bless your going forth,

To free your heart of ballast

So that the compass of your soul

Might direct you toward

The territories of spirit

Where you will discover

More of your hidden life,

And the urgencies

That deserve to claim you.

May you travel in an awakened way,

Gathered wisely into your inner ground;

That you may not waste the invitations

Which wait along the way to transform you.

May you travel safely, arrive refreshed,

And live your time away to its fullest;

Return home more enriched, and free

To balance the gift of days which call you.

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Why do I travel? (Author Unknown)

It is on the road that my inner voice speaks the loudest and my heart beats the strongest.

It is on the road that I take extra pride in my wooly hair, full features and lineage.

It is on the road that I develop extra senses and the hairs on my arms stand up and say “Sana, don’t go there”, and I listen.

It’s when I safety pin my money to my underclothes and count it a million times before I go to sleep.

It is on the road that I am a poet, an ambassador, a dancer, medicine woman, an angel and even a genius.

It’s on the road that I am fearless and unstoppable and if necessary ball up my fist and fight back.

It is on the road that I talk to my deceased parents and they speak back.

It’s on the road that I reprimand myself, and set new goals, refuel, stop and begin again.

It is on the road that I experience what freedom truly is.

It is my travel that has transformed me making me a citizen of the world. When my humanness, compassion and affection are raised to a new level and I share unconditionally.

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Snippet from Song of the Open Road, by Walt Whitman

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading me wherever I choose,

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

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The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Can you feel the wanderlust soaring? Which of these travel poems inspires you most in your in the comments below! Or maybe you have your own favourite travel poems? Tell us in the comments below!

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Poems About Travel

Table of contents.

Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson
The Ship is Ready by Hannah Flagg Gould
Two Worlds by Emily Dickinson
The Wayside Inn by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Quest by Winifred Webb
Homeward, Ho! by Ada A. Mosher
Autumn Fields by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

A rolling stone gathers no moss. – Ancient Proverb “

I should like to rise and go Where the golden apples grow;— Where below another sky Parrot islands anchored lie, And, watched by cockatoos and goats, Lonely Crusoes building boats;— Where in sunshine reaching out Eastern cities, miles about, Are with mosque and minaret Among sandy gardens set, And the rich goods from near and far Hang for sale in the bazaar;— Where the Great Wall round China goes, And on one side the desert blows, And with bell and voice and drum, Cities on the other hum;— Where are forests, hot as fire, Wide as England, tall as a spire, Full of apes and cocoa-nuts And the negro hunters' huts;— Where the knotty crocodile Lies and blinks in the Nile, And the red flamingo flies Hunting fish before his eyes;— Where in jungles, near and far, Man-devouring tigers are, Lying close and giving ear Lest the hunt be drawing near, Or a comer-by be seen Swinging in a palanquin;— Where among the desert sands Some deserted city stands, All its children, sweep and prince, Grown to manhood ages since, Not a foot in street or house, Not a stir of child or mouse, And when kindly falls the night, In all the town no spark of light. There I'll come when I'm a man With a camel caravan; Light a fire in the gloom Of some dusty dining-room; See the pictures on the walls, Heroes, fights, and festivals; And in a corner find the toys Of the old Egyptian boys.

The Ship is Ready

Fare thee well! the ship is ready, And the breeze is fresh and steady. Hands are fast the anchor weighing; High in the air the streamer's playing. Spread the sails—the waves are swelling Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling, Fare thee well! and when at sea, Think of those, who sigh for thee. When from land and home receding, And from hearts, that ache to bleeding, Think of those behind, who love thee, While the sun is bright above thee! Then, as down to ocean glancing, With the waves his rays are dancing, Think how long the night will be To the eyes, that weep for thee. When the lonely night-watch keeping, All below thee still and sleeping— As the needle points the quarter O'er the wide and trackless water, Let thy vigils ever find thee Mindful of the friends behind thee! Let thy bosom's magnet be Turned to those, who wake for thee! When, with slow and gentle motion, Heaves the bosom of the ocean— While in peace thy bark is riding, And the silver moon is gliding O'er the sky with tranquil splendor, Where the shining hosts attend her; Let the brightest visions be Country, home and friends, to thee! When the tempest hovers o'er thee, Danger, wreck and death before thee, While the sword of fire is gleaming, Wild the winds, the torrent streaming, Then, a pious suppliant bending, Let thy thoughts to heaven ascending Reach the mercy-seat, to be Met by prayers that rise for thee!

It makes no difference abroad, The seasons fit the same, The mornings blossom into noons, And split their pods of flame. Wild-flowers kindle in the woods, The brooks brag all the day; No blackbird bates his jargoning For passing Calvary. Auto-da-fe and judgment Are nothing to the bee; His separation from his rose To him seems misery.

The Wayside Inn

From "Prelude" One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, Across the meadows bare and brown, The windows of the wayside inn Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves Their crimson curtains rent and thin. As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. A region of repose it seems, A place of slumber and of dreams, Remote among the wooded hills! For there no noisy railway speeds, Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds; But noon and night, the panting teams Stop under the great oaks, that throw Tangles of light and shade below, On roofs and doors and window-sills. Across the road the barns display Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, Through the wide doors the breezes blow, The wattled cocks strut to and fro, And, half effaced by rain and shine, The Red Horse prances on the sign.

The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls

The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveler hastens toward the town, And the tide rises, the tide falls. Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls. The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveler to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Ho all you eager travelers! Have you some place to go Where you forget the many things You wish you did not know? Forget your own insistent past And feel just fit and free? If you have found it, won't you tell Its happy name to me?

Homeward, Ho!

Onward we speed like a swift-speeding arrow Winged from a bow! Cleaving the winding land line long and narrow 'Twixt clouds of snow. Straight thro' the mountain's heart swiftly we burrow, Laughing, the hills Hail as we distance them down the long furrow. How the race thrills! Clouds, spent with following fast, give up their chasing; Worsted the wind— Baying on heels, panting hard in the racing, Now—left behind! Flash on! As lightnings are hurled above us So be thy flight! Swift to the soft clime where loved ones who love us Wait us to-night! Give chase to distance! Dear hearts!—to be with them Is worth the chase! Never a music to rival in rhythm Thy muffled bass! "Nearer and nearer!" Ah, melody-makers, Match with your arts Music of speed over sea or land breakers To home-hungry hearts! Match, if ye can, the glad sway of its meter. Sadly prosaic Your motif, I ween, to the pulse of its fleeter Rough old trochaic! Homeward, my famished heart, homeward we're going, Homeward—ahoy! Long since my sad eyes have dimmed with thy flowing, Glad tears of joy. Homeward! Their loving arras wait to caress me— Slack not thy speed— Bearing me faithful and fast! Oh, I bless thee, Brave iron steed!

Autumn Fields

He said his legs were stiff and sore For he had gone some twenty-eight miles, And he'd walked through by watergaps And fences and gates and stiles. He said he'd been by Logan's woods, And up by Walton's branch and Simms, And there were sticktights on his clothes And little dusts of seeds and stems. And then he sat down on the steps, And he said the miles were on his feet. For some of that land was tangled brush, And some was plowed for wheat. The rabbits were thick where he had been, And he said he'd found some ripe papaws. He'd rested under a white oak tree, And for his dinner he ate red haws. Then I sat by him on the step To see the things that he had seen. And I could smell the shocks and clods, And the land where he had been.

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Here, we have gathered some of the greatest poems written about the allure of travel, and the wonders that can be discovered when we venture beyond our own doorsteps.

Discover our edit of the best poetry books.

From The Silverado Squatters

There are no foreign lands. It is the traveller only who is foreign.

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894)

A Prayer for Travellers

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;

The rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

On the World

The world’s an inn; and I her guest.

I eat; I drink; I take my rest.

My hostess, nature, does deny me

Nothing, wherewith she can supply me;

Where, having stayed a while, I pay

Her lavish bills, and go my way.

Francis Quarles (1592–1644)

If Once You Have Slept on an Island

If once you have slept on an island

You’ll never be quite the same;

You may look as you looked the day before

And go by the same old name,

You may bustle about in street and shop;

You may sit at home and sew,

But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gulls

Wherever your feet may go.

You may chat with the neighbors of this and that

And close to your fire keep,

But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell

And tides beat through your sleep.

Oh, you won’t know why, and you can’t say how

Such change upon you came,

But – once you have slept on an island

You’ll never be quite the same!

Rachel Field (1894–1942)

Gaily bedight,

A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old –

This knight so bold –

And o’er his heart a shadow

Fell, as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow –

‘Shadow,’ said he,

‘Where can it be –

This land of Eldorado?’

‘Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,’

The shade replied,

‘If you seek for Eldorado!’

Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849)

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive (stamped on these lifeless things)

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)

A Strip of Blue

I do not own an inch of land,

But all I see is mine, –

The orchard and the mowing fields,

The lawns and gardens fine.

The winds my tax-collectors are,

They bring me tithes divine, –

Wild scents and subtle essences,

A tribute rare and free;

And, more magnificent than all,

My window keeps for me

A glimpse of blue immensity, –

A little strip of sea.

Richer am I than he who owns

Great fleets and argosies;

I have a share in every ship

Won by the inland breeze,

To loiter on yon airy road

Above the apple-trees,

I freight them with my untold dreams;

Each bears my own picked crew;

And nobler cargoes wait for them

Than ever India knew, –

My ships that sail into the East

Across that outlet blue.

Sometimes they seem like living shapes, –

The people of the sky, –

Guests in white raiment coming down

From heaven, which is close by;

I call them by familiar names,

As one by one draws nigh,

So white, so light, so spirit-like,

From violet mists they bloom!

The aching wastes of the unknown

Are half reclaimed from gloom,

Since on life’s hospitable sea

All souls find sailing-room.

The ocean grows a weariness

With nothing else in sight;

Its east and west, its north and south,

Spread out from morn till night;

We miss the warm, caressing shore,

Its brooding shade and light.

Lucy Larcom (1824–1893)

O to sail in a ship,

To leave this steady unendurable land,

To leave the tiresome sameness of the streets,

the sidewalks and the houses,

To leave you, O you solid motionless land, and

entering a ship,

To sail and sail and sail!

Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

Midnight on the Great Western

In the third-class sat the journeying boy,

And the roof-lamp’s oily flame

Played down on his listless form and face,

Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,

Or whence he came.

In the band of his hat the journeying boy

Had a ticket stuck; and a string

Around his neck bore the key of his box,

That twinkled gleams of the lamp’s sad beams

Like a living thing.

What past can be yours, O journeying boy,

Towards a world unknown,

Who calmly, as if incurious quite

On all at stake, can undertake

This plunge alone?

Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,

Our rude realms far above,

Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete

This region of sin that you find you in

But are not of?

Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)

Give me the long, straight road before me,

A clear, cold day with a nipping air,

Tall, bare trees to run on beside me,

A heart that is light and free from care.

Then let me go! – I care not whither

My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be

Free as the brook that flows to the river,

Free as the river that flows to the sea.

Olive Runner

Poems for Travellers

By gaby morgan.

Poems for Travellers is part of the Macmillan Collector’s Library, with an introduction from the esteemed travel writer Paul Theroux. From Walt Whitman to Christina Rossetti, this collection contains some of the finest poems ever written about travel.

Travel Poem: Journey of the Heart

Journey of the Heart In the heart of the unknown, I wander Through valleys deep and mountains high Seeking stories untold, waiting to be discovered Underneath the vast and endless sky

The road ahead is paved with dreams And memories yet to be made Each step I take, a new adventure it seems As I journey through this world so grand and unafraid

I taste the salty air of distant shores And feel the warmth of foreign suns I hear the whispers of ancient lore And dance beneath the moonlit runs

With every mile, a piece of me unfolds A tapestry woven with joy and sorrow But in each new place, my spirit beholds The promise of a brighter tomorrow

So let me roam, let me explore Let my soul be free to roam For in travel, I find so much more Than just places – it’s where my heart finds home. Commentary and Analysis The poem “Journey of the Heart” explores the themes of exploration, discovery, and personal growth. The speaker embarks on a metaphorical journey through unknown lands, seeking new experiences and finding a sense of belonging in the world. The use of literary devices such as imagery, personification, and symbolism enhances the poem’s themes by creating vivid and evocative descriptions of the speaker’s travels.

The rhyme scheme in this poem is ABAB CDCD EFEF GHGH, with each stanza consisting of four lines. This consistent structure contributes to the overall impact of the poem by providing a sense of rhythm and flow that mirrors the steady progression of the speaker’s journey.

The meter in “Journey of the Heart” is primarily iambic tetrameter, with four metrical feet per line. This regular meter adds to the musicality and readability of the poem while also reinforcing its themes of forward movement and exploration.

In terms of historical and cultural context, this poem can be seen as reflecting universal human experiences related to travel and self-discovery. The idea of venturing into unknown territories has been a common theme in literature throughout history, symbolizing both physical exploration and inner growth. The references to distant shores, foreign suns, ancient lore, and moonlit runs evoke a sense of wanderlust that transcends specific cultural or historical contexts.

One key interpretation within the poem lies in its portrayal of travel as a means for personal transformation. Lines such as “With every mile, a piece of me unfolds / A tapestry woven with joy and sorrow” highlight how each new experience shapes and enriches the speaker’s identity. Additionally, the final lines emphasize that travel is not just about visiting different places but also about finding a sense of home within oneself.

Overall, “Journey 0f th3 Heart” effectively captures the spirit 0f adventure an4 self-discovery through its use 0f literary devices an4 rhyme schemes. Its structure an4 meter contribute t0 its impact by creating rhythmic momentum an4 coherence throughout th3 p03m. Th3 p03m’s universal themes an4 timeless imagery make it relevant across various historical an4 cultural contexts while offering insights into th3 transformative power 0f travel an4 exploration for individuals across time periods an4 societies.

Pirate Poem: Seeking Redemption on Distant Shores
Traveling Poem: Wandering Spirit
Poem About Travel: Roaming the World: A Journey of Discovery
Poem About Traveling: Wanderlust's Journey
Adventure Poem: Whispers of the Forest
Poem About Adventure: Embracing the Unknown

Consolation

How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer, wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns. How much better to cruise these local, familiar streets, fully grasping the meaning of every roadsign and billboard and all the sudden hand gestures of my compatriots. There are no abbeys here, no crumbling frescoes or famous domes and there is no need to memorize a succession of kings or tour the dripping corners of a dungeon. No need to stand around a sarcophagus, see Napoleon’s little bed on Elba, or view the bones of a saint under glass. How much better to command the simple precinct of home than be dwarfed by pillar, arch, and basilica. Why hide my head in phrase books and wrinkled maps? Why feed scenery into a hungry, one-eyes camera eager to eat the world one monument at a time? Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice, I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning paper, all language barriers down, rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

And after breakfast, I will not have to find someone willing to photograph me with my arm around the owner. I will not puzzle over the bill or record in a journal what I had to eat and how the sun came in the window. It is enough to climb back into the car as if it were the great car of English itself and sounding my loud vernacular horn, speed off down a road that will never lead to Rome , not even Bologna.

Billy Collins

Rome - the Colosseum and horses - photo by Zoe Dawes

Stratford-upon-Avon and Shakespeare on a summer's day

To Knutsford in search of Elizabeth Gaskell and the real 'Cranford'

The Jumblies by Edward Lear illustrated-by-ian-beck

Quirky Travel Poem: 'The Jumblies' by Edward Lear

Amazing! I know nothing about traveling all over the country, what a wonderful looking place to explore.

After reading the poem, am really interested in visiting Italy. Its an amazing place to tour. I have a friend living in Rome and I plan to give her a visit. Thank you for sharing this with the world.

Delighted to hear that this article has inspired you to travel again 🙂

Well, not quite sure which particular place you are hoping to explore, but glad it’s given you food for thought!

Acquisition International Business Excellent Award Unique Travel Blog 2019 The Quirky Traveller

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Hi, I’m Zoë; welcome to my quirky world…

QUIRKY TRAVEL is about seeing the world from a different angle, looking at things from all sides, finding the unusual, the interesting, the fascinating. It’s about quality combined with classiness, it’s about being curious about everything and wanting to know more…

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Analysis, meaning and summary of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem Travel

i see it as if the persona is trapped and wants to get out, she would take any train anywhere she could to get out. Also the persona cannot stop thinking about the train because they cannot stop thinking or wishing of how to get out. That is how i interpreted it.

I read this poem as adventurous, like she was wanting to get out and she would go anywhere the train took her

One further comment: When my wife and I moved to St. Louis from Oberlin so that I could do grad. work in Political Science at Washington University I found an apartment at 5877 Nina Place, St. Louis 12 (pre-zipcode). The mainline of the Wabash ran in a cutting right behind our apartment. I could watch many great trains, including The Wabash Cannonball and The Detroit Limited. We used both trains to get home to Michigan. We got off at Adrian. But enough! Millay again for sure.

The mainline of the Michigan Central ran right back of my high school. Every school day I heard The Wolverine (#17) go to Chicago from New York, The Michigan (#355) go to Chicago from Detroit. About the time school dismissed The New York Special (#44) went by from Chicago to New York. You can hear that train called out in Hitchcock’s “North By Northwest.” We cheered when we heard “Jackson” at the Michigan Theatre in the old hometown (where we still live). So, I like the poem because it’s about friends and trains and wishing I were on my way to the Windy City rather than in Chemistry Class. One can get rather too deep about literature! I am posting this from Houston, TX. I came here on what’s left of The Wolverine service and on The Texas Eagle (bus from Longview to Houston). We live in degraded times! No cinders, no steam, and a BUS to finish the journey. Good grief!

I do feel a love of Trains and the sheer magic of Train Travel. I think the sadness may come from not a lack of personal fulfillment but from simply missing travelling on the train. Perhaps you have to be a train travel enthusiast to feel this.

I’ve always seen the poem as more hopeful than that–that the narrarator wants to take every opportunity to follow there dreams, I never saw it as a sort of resigned, given-up-on-dreams feeling. That’s interesting.

This poem always gives me the incredible feeling that the narrator feels as though they have missed out on their dreams. Now they are stuck, content, but stuck and their forgotten and missed dreams are manifest in the form of an imaginary train that never comes.

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The land of counterpane.

When I was sick and lay a-bed, I had two pillows at my head, And all my toys beside me lay To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so I watched my leaden soldiers go, With different uniforms and drills, Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

To Any Reader

As from the house your mother sees You playing round the garden trees, So you may see, if you will look Through the windows of this book, Another child, far, far away, And in another garden, play. But do not think you can at all, By knocking on the window, call

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Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 (Rockland) – 1950 (Austerlitz)

The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn't a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn't a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming. My heart is warm with friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing; Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going.

Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on May 03, 2023

Quick analysis:

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Edna St. Vincent Millay was an American poet and playwright. She received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923, the third woman to win the award for poetry, and was also known for her feminist activism more…

All Edna St. Vincent Millay poems | Edna St. Vincent Millay Books

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Sonnet 02: Time Does Not Bring Relief; You All Have Lied
The Philosopher
I Know The Face Of Falsehood And Her Tongue

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The poem “Travel” (1921) by Edna St. Vincent Millay explores the desire to travel and explore around the time of industrial innovation in the early-20th century. The poem focuses on trains as the main means of travel, opportunity, and possibility in an otherwise static world. “Travel” also explores one’s relationship to local locale and community, one’s duty to remain where they’re from, and harboring the desire to discover something new.

The poem has 12 lines and contains a rhyme scheme. It has the likeness to a sonnet but diverts in structure of rhyme and number of lines, conveying three fractured scenes that separate the speaker from being fully immersed in the setting . This type of fragmentation fits into the art and literary movements at the time, like Modernism, and into the consciousness and disconnect also found in the Lost Generation post WWI.

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Poet Biography

Born in 1892, Millay began writing at an early age and later attended Vassar College. After her studies, she moved to Greenwich Village in New York City and lived with her sister. She wrote poetry and plays, some of which focus on gender and attraction between members of the same sex. She won the Pulitzer Prize in 1923 for her book of poems The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver . Millay died in 1950, at 58 years old (“ Edna St. Vincent Millay .” Poets.org , Academy of American Poets).

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Millay is part of the Lost Generation and Modernist literary movement. Her writing and experiences developed post WWI, and she shared the desire to see more beyond her city, town, or country. Many became disenchanted with society and traditional values during this time. These individuals confronted the existential question of identity and social reassimilation after a war (“ Lost Generation .” Encyclopedia Britannica, 27 Nov. 2019). Notable Lost Generation authors include Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, T. S. Eliot, and Ernest Hemingway. These same writers fall into the Modernist literary movement, as well.

Millay’s poems juxtapose these attitudes with traditional poetic forms (most notably, sonnets and meter ), but they also incorporate Modernist concepts into the relay of experience (“ Edna St. Vincent Millay .” Poetry Foundation , Poetry Foundation).

Modernism began in the early-to-mid 20th century, most notably around the first World War and after it ended. Many Modernist writers rejected traditional poetic form; some utilized structures (like metered rhyme, sonnets) to convey a “fragmented vision” (“ What Is Modernism? ” The University of Toledo, Canaday Center , The University of Toledo).

Modernism also rejects and views European culture as outdated, corrupted, and superficial, as well as “moral and religious principles” spurred by the development of technology and science.

Other art mediums also reflect these burgeoning attitudes that rejected traditional methods that focused on the literal replication of a subject (“ Modernism Characteristics .” History of Modernism , Miami Dade College).

The railroad track is miles away,

And the day is loud with voices speaking,

Yet there isn't a train goes by all day

But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by,

Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,

But I see its cinders red on the sky,

And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,

And better friends I'll not be knowing;

Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,

No matter where it's going.

St. Vincent Millay, Edna. “ Travel .” 1921. Poets.org .

The first stanza establishes the setting, which is ambiguous in detail. It begins with the notion of train tracks far from the speaker’s view. In its place , however, is the presence of sound—the voices of people talking during the day. The speaker longs for the train that never comes; in its place, there is the “shriek” of the train’s whistle (Line 4).

The second stanza moves from sound to sight. The speaker remains static, observing from the same ambiguous space as in the first stanza. Now it is nighttime, and the community sleeps—all but the speaker, who still longs for the train. Its steam and glowing embers are only observable from a distance (Lines 7-8).

The third stanza creates a turn in the narrative (much in the way a sonnet does). Place remains ambiguous, especially from the present and future view. In this final stanza, the focus shifts from time of day to relationships: friendships in the speaker’s locale and those never met because the train never comes. Despite the connection to place and community, the poem ends with the itch to get on a train and travel away from where one is (Lines 9-12).

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Edna St. Vincent Millay was born in Rockland, Maine, on February 22, 1892. A poet and playwright poetry collections include The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver (Flying Cloud Press, 1922), winner of the Pulitzer Prize, and Renascence and Other Poems (Harper, 1917) She died on October 18, 1950, in Austerlitz, New York.
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Travel Summary and Study Guide
The poem "Travel" (1921) by Edna St. Vincent Millay explores the desire to travel and explore around the time of industrial innovation in the early-20th century. The poem focuses on trains as the main means of travel, opportunity, and possibility in an otherwise static world. ... My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends ...
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Poetry About Travel: 21 Most Inspiring Travel Poems

Poetry About Travel: The Most Beautiful Travel Poems

1. The Farewell by Kahlil Gibran

2. Freedom by Olive Runner

3. Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman

4. A Song of Joys by Walt Whitman

5. Travelling Again by Du Fu

6. Hearthside by Dorothy Parker

7. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

8. Eldorado by Edgar Allan Poe

9. Rootless by Jenny Xie

10. Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson

11. Dislocation by Simon Constam

12. Questions of travel by Elizabeth Bishop

13. For the Traveler by John O’Donohue

14. The Return by Geneen Marie Haugen

15. Travel by Edna St. Vincent Millay

16. Traveling by Nayyirah Waheed

17. On the World by Francis Quarles

18. Why Do I Travel by an unknown author

19. If Once You’ve Slept on an Island by Rachel Field

20. Die Slowly by Martha Medeiros

21. Oh, the Places You’ll Go by Dr. Seuss

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