Sompsin's "Journey" is about relentless, almost stubborn movement. The speaker keeps repeating "I walked," and the repetition does the work of the walking itself: each line feels like another step. The distances grow absurd, a thousand miles, then a hundred years, which suggests this isn't really a physical trip. It reads more like a long struggle, a search for something the speaker never names.
The middle of the poem is its breaking point. The speaker walks until the mind and body both say no, yet the walking doesn't stop. Then the pace shifts. The lines get shorter, and the speaker searches, stands, sits, and looks up at the night sky. It's a brief pause, almost a rest.
The ending is the most striking part. Even with eyes closed, even in daylight, the speaker keeps walking. The journey has become internal, something that continues whether or not the road is visible. The mood is weary but determined, with a quiet sense that the search itself has become who the speaker is.