Sometimes I wish the railroads all were torn out, <br />The ships all sunk among the coral strands. <br />I am so very weary, yea, so worn out, <br />With tales of those who visit foreign lands. <br /> <br />When asked to dine, to meet these traveled people, <br />My soup seems brewed from cemetery bones. <br />The fish grows cold on some cathedral steeple, <br />I miss two courses while I stare at thrones. <br /> <br />I'm forced to leave my salad quite untasted, <br />Some musty, moldy temple to explore. <br />The ices, fruit and coffee all are wasted <br />While into realms of ancient art I soar. <br /> <br />I'd rather take my chance of life and reason, <br />If in a den of roaring lions hurled <br />Than for a single year, ay, for one season, <br />To dwell with folks who'd traveled round the world. <br /> <br />So patronizing are they, so oppressive, <br />With pity for the ones who stay at home, <br />So mighty is their knowledge, so aggressive, <br />I ofttimes wish they had not ceased to roam. <br /> <br />They loathe the new, they quite detest the present; <br />They revel in a pre-Columbian morn; <br />Just dare to say America is pleasant, <br />And die beneath the glances of their scorn. <br /> <br />They are increasing at a rate alarming, <br />Go where I will, the traveled man is there. <br />And now I think that rustic wholly charming <br />Who has not strayed beyond his meadows fair.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-traveled-man/
