Away from sorrow! Yes, indeed, away! <br />Who said that care behind the horseman sits? <br />The train to Paris, as it flies to--day, <br />Whirls its bold rider clear of ague fits. <br />Who stops for sorrows? Who for his lost wits, <br />His vanished gold, his loves of yesterday, <br />His vexed ambitions? See, the landscape flits <br />Bright in his face, and fleeter far than they. <br />Away! away! Our mother Earth is wide; <br />And our poor lives and loves of what avail? <br />All life is here; and here we sit astride <br />On her broad back, with Hope's white wings for sail, <br />In search of fortune and that glorious goal, <br />Paris, the golden city of our soul.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pilgrimage-sonnet-vi/
