798. Travelling, by Henry David Thoreau

If e'er our minds be ill at ease
It is in vain to cross the seas
Or when the fates do prove unkind
To leave our native land behind.
The ship becalmed at length stands still
The steed will rest beneath the hill.
But swiftly still our fortunes pace
To find us out in every place.

Source: Walden, Maine Woods, Essays, & Poems