Poetry about foreign countries

Personally I like the selected poems of Emily Dickinson

I have never seen the wasteland

I have never seen the wasteland--

I have never seen the ocean --

But I know the appearance of the heather

and the wild waves.

I have never talked to God

Never visited heaven--

But I seem to have passed the test

I will definitely get there That place.

I never saw a moor

I never saw a Moor--

I never saw the Sea--

Yet know I how the Heather looks

And what a Billow be.

I never spoke with God

Nor visited in Heaven--

Yet certain am I of the spot

As if the Checks were given--

The clouds are dark

The sky is low and the clouds are dark again,

Flying through the snowflakes.

Crossing the rutted horse pen,

It is difficult to decide whether to stay or go.

Whoever treats the wind like this will make him complain all day long.

Nature is like us,

We often don’t wear a crown.

Beclouded

THE sky is low, the clouds are mean,

A traveling flake of snow

Across a barn or through a rut

Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all day

How some one treated him;

Nature, like us, is sometimes caught

Without her diadem.

Escape

My blood speeds up as soon as I hear the word "escape"

Rushing,

A sudden expectation,

An impulse to fly.

I have never heard of an open prison

being captured by soldiers,

but I childishly dragged my fence--

Escape

I NEVER hear the word "escape"

Without a quicker blood,

A sudden expectation,

A flying attitude.

I never hear of prisons broad

by soldiers battered down,

But I tug childish at my bars--

Only to fail again!

Hope

"Hope" is something with feathers

residing in the soul Here,

singing a melody without words,

never stopping at all,

The breeze blowing is the sweetest

The heavy rain will undoubtedly cause pain

Can make birds restless

Keep so much warmth.

Listen to it crossing the wonderful sea

Flying over the cold fields

But it doesn’t want my bread crumbs

Even if it is extremely hungry.

"Hope"

"HOPE" is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And the sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest Sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of Me.