The Song Of The Traveler Poem by Jann Matthew Papin

Like to a leaf that is fallen and withered
Tossed by the tempest from pole unto pole;
Thus roams the pilgrim abroad without purpose,
Roams without love, without country or soul.

Following anxiously treacherous fortune,
Fortune which, as he grasps at, it flees;
Vain though he hopes that his yearning is seeking,
Yet does the pilgrim embark on the seas.

Ever impelled by invisible power,
Destined to roam from the East to the West;
Oft he remembers the faces of loved ones,
Dreams of the day when he too must rest.

Chance may assign him a tomb in the dessert,
Grant him a final asylum of peace;
Soon by the world and his country forgotten
God rest his soul when his wanderings cease!

Often the sorrowful pilgrim is envied,
Circling the globe like a seagull above;
Little, ah, little they know what a void
Saddens his soul by the absence of love.

Home may the pilgrims return in the future,
Back to his loved ones his footsteps he bends;
Naught will he find but the dust and the ruins,
Ashes of love and the tombs of his friends.

Pilgrim, begone! Nor return more hereafter,
Stranger thou art in the land of thy birth;
Others may sing of their love while rejoicing,
Thou once again must roam over the earth.

Pilgrim, begone! Nor return more hereafter,
Dry are the tears that a while for thee ran;
Pilgrim, begone! And forget thy affliction,
Loud laughs the world at the sorrows of man.