The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire,
Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire,
Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams,
Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams.
Look round;- of all the clouds not one is moving;
'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving.
Silent, and steadfast as the vaulted sky,
The boundless plain of water seem to lie:-
Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er
The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore!
No, 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea,
Whispering how meek and gentle he can be!

Thou power supreme! Who, arming to rebuke
Offenders, dost put off the gracious look,
And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood
Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood,
Whatever discipline thy Will ordain
For the brief course that must for me remain;
Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice
In admonitions of thy softest voice!
Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace,
Breathe through my soul the blessing of
Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere
Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear;
Glad to expand, and, a season, free
From the finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee!

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Ask me where have I been
And I'll tell you: "Things keep on happening".
I must talk of the rubble that darkens the stones;
Of the river's duration, destroying itself;
I know only the things that the birds have abandoned,
Or the ocean behind me, or my sorrowing sister.
Why the distinctions of place? Why should day
Follow day? Why must the blackness
Of nighttime collect in our mouths? Why the dead?

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), Chilean Poet
Excerpt from There's No Forgetting (Sonata)

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts in that sweet bower
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played;
Their thoughts I cannot measure:-
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was a pleasure there.

From Heaven if this belief be sent,
If such be nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What has man made of man?

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

If you have any favourite travelling or South American poems, please write.