POETRY: The Pilgrimage, by George Herbert


I traveled on, seeing the hill, where lay
My expectation.
A long it was and weary way.
The gloomy cave of Desperation
I left on the one, and on the other side
The rock of Pride.

And so I came to Fancy’s meadow strowed
With many a flower:
Fain would I here have made abode,
But I was quicken’d by my hour.
So to Care’s copse I came, and there got through
With much ado.

That led me to the wild of Passion, which
Some call the wold;
A wasted place, but sometimes rich.
Here I was robbed of all my gold,
Save one good Angel, which a friend had tied
Close to my side.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,
Where lay my hope,
Where lay my heart; and climbing still,
When I had gain’d the brow and top,
A lake of brackish waters on the ground
Was all I found.

With that abashed and struck with many a sting
Of swarming fears,
I fell, and cried, Alas, my King;
Can both the way and end be tears?
Yet taking heart I rose, and then perceived
I was deceived:

My hill was further; so I flung away,
Yet heard a cry
Just as I went, None goes that way
And lives. If that be all, said I,
After so foul a journey death is fair,
And but a chair.


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  1. POETRY: The Pilgrimage, by George Herbert — The Value of Sparrows | Operating invisibly

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