 | A Dream |  |
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THOUGHT.
With a river alone away from the world,I drift and drift,
And in parts of this river my bark is whirled.
With a lift, and lift,
From the banks of this river comes sweet perfume
Which is borne on the air from the roses' bloom,
And the birds in the trees are singing to me;
But mine is a river you cannot see,
Where I drift and drift.
Afar up the shore they beckon and call,
For mine is a river not charming to all,
Where I drift and drift.
I've ridden this river for years and years,
Through the glens of glad hope, through the valley of tears.
Through sunshine and joy, through the black of the night,
Where the caverns of gloom stood full in my sight,
And methinks that I hear far down the shore,
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As I drift and drift.
And methinks that I smell perfume on an air
That comes from a land of the ideal so fair,
Where the cataract's sprays in a rainbow leap
And the nightingale sings the bluebells to sleep,
It seems, ah soon, the end shall be,
If I hear not far eternity
As I drift and drift,
With a lift and lift.
| A Dream | |