Poems About Adventure

Poems About Adventure (Introducing Fascinating Characters)

Here is a selection of the greatest and most well-known poems about adventure ever written. This is a hand-picked collection of the top notable Adventure poems.

Poems About Adventure

Poems About Adventure

Are you searching for lovely poems about adventure to satisfy your wanderlust while you’re stuck at home or perhaps to motivate and inspire you to seek out new adventures?

Your imagination will go to parts of the world that many people never get to see in their lifetimes because of these adventure poems. Our assortment will have something to suit your interest, whether it be an epic adventure over a desert or scaling a mountain top.

Famous Adventure poetry, as well as traditional and modern poems, are all read, written, and enjoyed. The best poems about adventure can be found in these top poems.

1. Life by Henry Van Dyke

Let me but live my life from year to year,
With forward face and unreluctant soul;
Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal;
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils; but with a whole
And happy heart, that pays its toll
To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.

So let the way wind up the hill or down,
O’er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy:
Still seeking what I sought when but a boy,
New friendship, high adventure, and a crown,
My heart will keep the courage of the quest,
And hope the road’s last turn will be the best.

2. This Consciousness that is aware by Emily Dickinson

This Consciousness that is aware
Of Neighbors and the Sun
Will be the one aware of Death
And that itself alone

Is traversing the interval
Experience between
And most profound experiment
Appointed unto Men —

How adequate unto itself
Its properties shall be
Itself unto itself and none
Shall make discovery.

Adventure most unto itself
The Soul condemned to be —
Attended by a single Hound
Its own identity.


3. My Future by Robert William Service

“Let’s make him a sailor,” said Father,
“And he will adventure the sea.

“A soldier,” said Mother, “is rather
What I would prefer him to be.

“A lawyer,” said Father, “would please me,
For then he could draw up my will.

“A doctor,” said Mother, “would ease me;
Maybe he could give me a pill.

Said Father: “Lt’s make him a curate,
A Bishop in gaiters to be.

Said Mother: “I couldn’t endure it
To have Willie preaching to me.

Said Father: “”Let him be a poet;
So often he’s gathering wool.

Said Mother with temper: “Oh stow it!
You know it, a poet’s a fool.

Said Farther: “Your son is a duffer,
A stupid and mischievous elf.

Said Mother, who’s rather a huffer:
“That’s right – he takes after yourself.

Controlling parental emotion
They turned to me, seeking a cue,
And sudden conceived the bright notion
To ask what I wanted to do.

Said I: “my ambition is modest:
A clown in a circus I’d be,
And turn somersaults in the sawdust
With audience laughing at me.

Poor parents! they’re dead and decaying,
But I am a clown as you see;
And though in no circus I’m playing,
How people are laughing at me!


4. Stupid by Raymond Carver

It’s what the kids nowadays call weed.
And it drifts
like clouds from his lips.
He hopes no one
comes along tonight, or calls to ask for help.

Help is what he’s most short on tonight.

A storm thrashes outside.
Heavy seas
with gale winds from the west.
The table he sits at
is, say, two cubits long and one wide.

The darkness in the room teems with insight.

Could be he’ll write an adventure novel.
Or else
a children’s story.
A play for two female characters,
one of whom is blind.
Cutthroat should be coming
into the river.
One thing he’ll do is learn
to tie his own flies.
Maybe he should give
more money to each of his surviving
family members.
The ones who already expect a little
something in the mail first of each month.

Every time they write they tell him
they’re coming up short.
He counts heads on his fingers
and finds they’re all survivng.
So what
if he’d rather be remembered in the dreams of strangers?
He raises his eyes to the skylights where rain
hammers on.
After a while —
who knows how long? — his eyes ask
that they be closed.
And he closes them.

But the rain keeps hammering.
Is this a cloudburst?
Should he do something? Secure the house
in some way? Uncle Bo stayed married to Aunt Ruby for 47 years.
Then hanged himself.

He opens his eyes again.
Nothing adds up.

It all adds up.
How long will this storm go on?


5. The Wood by Charlotte Bronte

But two miles more, and then we rest !
Well, there is still an hour of day,
And long the brightness of the West
Will light us on our devious way;
Sit then, awhile, here in this wood­
So total is the solitude,
We safely may delay.

These massive roots afford a seat,
Which seems for weary travellers made.

There rest.
The air is soft and sweet
In this sequestered forest glade,
And there are scents of flowers around,
The evening dew draws from the ground;
How soothingly they spread !

Yes; I was tired, but not at heart;
No­that beats full of sweet content,
For now I have my natural part
Of action with adventure blent;
Cast forth on the wide vorld with thee,
And all my once waste energy
To weighty purpose bent.

Yet­say’st thou, spies around us roam,
Our aims are termed conspiracy ?
Haply, no more our English home
An anchorage for us may be ?
That there is risk our mutual blood
May redden in some lonely wood
The knife of treachery ?

Say’st thou­that where we lodge each night,
In each lone farm, or lonelier hall
Of Norman Peer­ere morning light
Suspicion must as duly fall,
As day returns­such vigilance
Presides and watches over France,
Such rigour governs all ?

I fear not, William; dost thou fear ?
So that the knife does not divide,
It may be ever hovering near:
I could not tremble at thy side,
And strenuous love­like mine for thee­
Is buckler strong, ‘gainst treachery,
And turns its stab aside.

I am resolved that thou shalt learn
To trust my strength as I trust thine;
I am resolved our souls shall burn,
With equal, steady, mingling shine;
Part of the field is conquered now,
Our lives in the same channel flow,
Along the self-same line;

And while no groaning storm is heard,
Thou seem’st content it should be so,
But soon as comes a warning word
Of danger­straight thine anxious brow
Bends over me a mournful shade,
As doubting if my powers are made
To ford the floods of woe.

Know, then it is my spirit swells,
And drinks, with eager joy, the air
Of freedom­where at last it dwells,
Chartered, a common task to share
With thee, and then it stirs alert,
And pants to learn what menaced hurt
Demands for thee its care.

Remember, I have crossed the deep,
And stood with thee on deck, to gaze
On waves that rose in threatening heap,
While stagnant lay a heavy haze,
Dimly confusing sea with sky,
And baffling, even, the pilot’s eye,
Intent to thread the maze­

Of rocks, on Bretagne’s dangerous coast,
And find a way to steer our band
To the one point obscure, which lost,
Flung us, as victims, on the strand;­
All, elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword,
And not a wherry could be moored
Along the guarded land.

I feared not then­I fear not now;
The interest of each stirring scene
Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow,
In every nerve and bounding vein;
Alike on turbid Channel sea,
Or in still wood of Normandy,
I feel as born again.

The rain descended that wild morn
When, anchoring in the cove at last,
Our band, all weary and forlorn,
Ashore, like wave-worn sailors, cast­
Sought for a sheltering roof in vain,
And scarce could scanty food obtain
To break their morning fast.

Thou didst thy crust with me divide,
Thou didst thy cloak around me fold;
And, sitting silent by thy side,
I ate the bread in peace untold:
Given kindly from thy hand, ’twas sweet
As costly fare or princely treat
On royal plate of gold.

Sharp blew the sleet upon my face,
And, rising wild, the gusty wind
Drove on those thundering waves apace,
Our crew so late had left behind;
But, spite of frozen shower and storm,
So close to thee, my heart beat warm,
And tranquil slept my mind.

So now­nor foot-sore nor opprest
With walking all this August day,
I taste a heaven in this brief rest,
This gipsy-halt beside the way.

England’s wild flowers are fair to view,
Like balm is England’s summer dew,
Like gold her sunset ray.

But the white violets, growing here,
Are sweeter than I yet have seen,
And ne’er did dew so pure and clear
Distil on forest mosses green,
As now, called forth by summer heat,
Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat­
These fragrant limes between.

That sunset ! Look beneath the boughs,
Over the copse­beyond the hills;
How soft, yet deep and warm it glows,
And heaven with rich suffusion fills;
With hues where still the opal’s tint,
Its gleam of poisoned fire is blent,
Where flame through azure thrills !

Depart we now­for fast will fade
That solemn splendour of decline,
And deep must be the after-shade
As stars alone to-night will shine;
No moon is destined­pale­to gaze
On such a day’s vast Phoenix blaze,
A day in fires decayed !

There­hand-in-hand we tread again
The mazes of this varying wood,
And soon, amid a cultured plain,
Girt in with fertile solitude,
We shall our resting-place descry,
Marked by one roof-tree, towering high
Above a farm-stead rude.

Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare,
We’ll seek a couch of dreamless ease;
Courage will guard thy heart from fear,
And Love give mine divinest peace:
To-morrow brings more dangerous toil,
And through its conflict and turmoil
We’ll pass, as God shall please.

These poems about adventure will take you to exotic locales and introduce you to fascinating new characters through literature, whether you’re eager to travel the world or simply seeking a fresh viewpoint.

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