For the boy playing with his globe and stamps
The world is equal to his appetite—
How grand the world in the blaze of the lamps
How petty in tomorrow's small dry light!

One morning we lift anchor, full of brave
Prejudices, prospects, ingenuity—
We swing with the velvet swell of the wave
Our infinite is rocked by the fixed sea

Some wish to fly a cheapness they detest
Others, their cradles' terror—others stand
With their binoculars on a woman's breast
Reptilian Circe with her junk and wand

Not to be turned to reptiles, such men daze
Themselves with spaces, light, the burning sky;
Cold toughens them, they bronze in the sun's blaze
And dry the sores of their debauchery

But the true voyagers are those who move
Simply to move—like lost balloons! Their heart
Is some old motor thudding in one groove
It says its single phrase, "Let us depart!"