The
Traveled Man by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
SOMETIMES I wish the
railroads all were torn out,
The ships all sunk among
the coral strands.
I am so very weary, yea,
so worn out,
With tales of those who
visit foreign lands.
When asked to dine, to
meet these traveled people,
My soup seems brewed
from cemetery bones.
The fish grows cold on
some cathedral steeple,
I miss two courses while
I stare at thrones.
I'm forced to leave my
salad quite untasted,
Some musty, moldy temple
to explore.
The ices, fruit and
coffee all are wasted
While into realms of
ancient art I soar.
I'd rather take my
chance of life and reason,
If in a den of roaring
lions hurled
Than for a single year,
ay, for one season,
To dwell with folks
who'd traveled round the world.
So patronizing are they,
so oppressive,
With pity for the ones
who stay at home,
So mighty is their
knowledge, so aggressive,
I often times wish they
had not ceased to roam.
They loathe the new,
they quite detest the present;
They revel in a
pre-Columbian morn;
Just dare to say America
is pleasant,
And die beneath the
glances of their scorn.
They are increasing at a
rate alarming,
Go where I will, the traveled
man is there.
And now I think that
rustic wholly charming
Who has not strayed
beyond his meadows fair.
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