The Pilgrimage

The following poem is by George Herbert. I hope you enjoy reading it.

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 th'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 quickened 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 gained 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."