II

  Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
  Festively she puts forth in trim array;
  As vigorous as a Lark at break of day:
  Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
  What boots the enquiry? Neither friend nor foe
  She cares for; let her travel where she may,
  She finds familiar names, a beaten way
  Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
  Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark?
  And, almost as it was when ships were rare,
  From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
  Crossing the waters; doubt, and something dark,
  Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
  Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

• About William Wordsworth