Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
some poems about pilgrimages and an announcement
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
ché la diritta via era smarrita.
Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
—Dante La Divina CommediaThanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes, Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage, And palmers to go seeking out strange strands, To distant shrines well known in sundry lands. — Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales General Prologue
It’s not April, and there will not be sweet showers in Italy. Rather, much heat and much sun. Hot July seems a much less propitious month for pilgrimage than April. And yet here we are in the middle of life’s journey. Tomorrow Dom and I will join a pilgrimage with 60 fellow pilgrims and head to Rome. (With a layover in Montreal on the way.)
Things will be quiet around this Substack in the next couple of weeks, though I will try to post occasional photos in Notes.
If you have an intention that you would like me to pray for, please drop a note in the comments. And know that whether you leave a comment or not, I will pray for all of you, my readers and Substack friends.
Meanwhile, here is a little collection of poems about pilgrimages that I have gathered:
The Pilgrims
by John McCrae
An uphill path, sun-gleams between the showers,
Where every beam that broke the leaden sky
Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours;
Some clustered graves where half our memories lie;
And one grim Shadow creeping ever nigh:
And this was Life.
Wherein we did another's burden seek,
The tired feet we helped upon the road,
The hand we gave the weary and the weak,
The miles we lightened one another's load,
When, faint to falling, onward yet we strode:
This too was Life.
Till, at the upland, as we turned to go
Amid fair meadows, dusky in the night,
The mists fell back upon the road below;
Broke on our tired eyes the western light;
The very graves were for a moment bright:
And this was Death.
This poem was supposed to have been written the night before Raleigh was to be executed:
His Pilgrimage
by Sir Walter Raleigh
Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage,
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body’s balmer,
No other balm will there be given,
Whilst my soul, like a white palmer,
Travels to the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
And there I’ll kiss
The bowl of bliss,
And drink my eternal fill
On every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before,
But after it will ne’er thirst more;
And by the happy blissful way
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have shook off their gowns of clay,
And go apparelled fresh like me.
I’ll bring them first
To slake their thirst,
And then to taste those nectar suckets,
At the clear wells
Where sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all we
Are fill’d with immortality,
Then the holy paths we’ll travel,
Strew’d with rubies thick as gravel,
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearl bowers.
From thence to heaven’s bribeless hall
Where no corrupted voices brawl,
No conscience molten into gold,
Nor forg’d accusers bought and sold,
No cause deferr’d, nor vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the king’s attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
When the grand twelve million jury
Of our sins and sinful fury,
’Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder,
Thou movest salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribed lawyer’s palms.
And this is my eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
Seeing my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head.
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.
The Pilgrimage
by George Herbert
I travell'd 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 strow'd
With many a flower:
Fain would I here have made abode,
But I was quicken'd 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 robb'd of all my gold,
Save one good Angell, which a friend had ti'd
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 gain'd the brow and top,
A lake of brackish waters on the ground
Was all I found.
With that abash'd and struck with many a sting
Of swarming fears,
I fell, and cry'd, Alas my King!
Can both the way and end be tears?
Yet taking heart I rose, and then perceiv'd
I was deceiv'd:
My hill was further: so I flung away,
Yet heard a crie
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.
Up-Hill
by Christina Rossetti
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
From E. E. Cummings:
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
And a handful from Emily Dickinson:
Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee. Only a Bee will miss it— Only a Butterfly, Hastening from far journey— On its breast to lie— Only a Bird will wonder— Only a Breeze will sigh— Ah Little Rose—how easy For such as thee to die!
Will there really be a "Morning"? Is there such a thing as "Day"? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they? Has it feet like Water lilies? Has it feathers like a Bird? Is it brought from famous countries Of which I have never heard? Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor! Oh some Wise Men from the skies! Please to tell a little Pilgrim Where the place called "Morning" lies!
I cross till I am weary A Mountain — in my mind — More Mountains — then a Sea — More Seas — And then A Desert — find — And My Horizon blocks With steady — drifting — Grains Of unconjectured quantity — As Asiatic Rains — Nor this — defeat my Pace — It hinder from the West But as an Enemy's Salute One hurrying to Rest — What merit had the Goal — Except there intervene Faint Doubt — and far Competitor — To jeopardize the Gain? At last — the Grace in sight — I shout unto my feet — I offer them the Whole of Heaven The instant that we meet — They strive — and yet delay — They perish — Do we die — [They] stagger Or is this Death's Experiment — Reversed — in Victory?
For every Bird a Nest— Wherefore in timid quest Some little Wren goes seeking round— Wherefore when boughs are free— Households in every tree— Pilgrim be found? Perhaps a home too high— Ah Aristocracy! The little Wren desires— Perhaps of twig so fine— Of twine e'en superfine, Her pride aspires— The Lark is not ashamed To build upon the ground Her modest house— Yet who of all the throng Dancing around the sun Does so rejoice?
I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching Next to mine, And summon them to drink; Crackling with fever, they essay, I turn my brimming eyes away, And come next hour to look. The hands still hug the tardy glass— The lips I would have cooled, alas, Are so superfluous Cold— I would as soon attempt to warm The bosoms where the frost has lain Ages beneath the mould— Some other thirsty there may be To whom this would have pointed me Had it remained to speak— And so I always bear the cup If, haply, mine may be the drop Some pilgrim thirst to slake— If, haply, any say to me "Unto the little, unto me," When I at last awake.
And finally I have two book recommendations: Station Island by Seamus Heaney and Still Pilgrim by Angela Alaimo O’Donnell.
The Station Island title sequence is a series of twelve poems that recount a pilgrimage to St Patrick’s Purgatory, a popular pilgrimage site on Lough Derg in County Donegal, which has been a pilgrimage site for almost a thousand years. The eleventh section, which contains Heaney’s translation of a poem of St John of the Cross, is one of my favorite Heaney poems.
The first of O’Donnell’s Still Pilgrim sonnets was inspired by a pilgrimage to Herman Melville’s grave. They are all beautiful little meditations on “the paradox of caring and not caring, the discipline of sitting still even as the world moves”. Even though I’m trying to pack light and only planned to bring my Kindle with me, I am finding myself tempted to bring these two volumes of poetry with me. They feel thematically appropriate.
God bless you on this pilgrimage. I just found your substack. If you would be so kind to offer a prayer for my own good health and the grace to accept God’s holy will in everything especially in the suffering in seeing my parents approach the last stage of their earthly lives.
May God richly bless your pilgrimage! Please say a prayer for my prodigal son.