[Poems by Gallagher in] The poets and poetry of the West with biographical and critical notices |
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THE LAND OF LIFE. |
 | [Poems by Gallagher in] The poets and poetry of the West |  |
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THE LAND OF LIFE.
I wander ever in a land of dreams,
Where flowers perpetual bloom about my way,
And where faint murmurs of meandering streams
Open and close the glory of each day:—
Cool, spicy airs upon my temples play;
Wild, ravishing songs of birds enchant my ears;
Odors and exhalations, where I stray,
Sweeten and beautify the lapsing years;
And through whatever is, what is to be appears.
Where flowers perpetual bloom about my way,
And where faint murmurs of meandering streams
Open and close the glory of each day:—
Cool, spicy airs upon my temples play;
Wild, ravishing songs of birds enchant my ears;
Odors and exhalations, where I stray,
Sweeten and beautify the lapsing years;
And through whatever is, what is to be appears.
Some deem this land of dreams the Land of Life,—
And, moved by high ambitions, build them here
Mansions of pride, that fill erewhile with strife,
And palaces of hope, that disappear
Ere well completed; still, through many a year,
Vain repetitions of this toil and sweat
Go on, until the heart is lone and sere,
And weary, and oppressed; and even yet
Men plod and plant, and reap earth's fever and its fret.
And, moved by high ambitions, build them here
Mansions of pride, that fill erewhile with strife,
And palaces of hope, that disappear
Ere well completed; still, through many a year,
Vain repetitions of this toil and sweat
Go on, until the heart is lone and sere,
And weary, and oppressed; and even yet
Men plod and plant, and reap earth's fever and its fret.
And others deem this land the land of woe,—
And fill it with vague shapes, chimeras dire,
Sights, sounds, portents, that hither come and go,
Melting midst ice, and freezing amid fire—
Each feeling its own hate, and either's ire—
Seething and bubbling like a storm-tossed sea—
With wailings ever born, that ne'er expire—
Primeval ills, from which in vain they flee—
All horrors man can taste, or touch, or hear, or see.
And fill it with vague shapes, chimeras dire,
Sights, sounds, portents, that hither come and go,
Melting midst ice, and freezing amid fire—
Each feeling its own hate, and either's ire—
Seething and bubbling like a storm-tossed sea—
With wailings ever born, that ne'er expire—
Primeval ills, from which in vain they flee—
All horrors man can taste, or touch, or hear, or see.
But, ne'ertheless, this is the land of dreams:
Unto the Land of Life, through this we go,
From out the land of darkness, wherefrom streams
No ray, that thence we might its secret know:
Unto the Land of Life, through this we go—
Through this, the land of dreams; and dimly here
Perceive, while wandering trustful to and fro,
Things that in full-robed glory there appear,
Around the Eternal One, throughout the Eternal Year.
Unto the Land of Life, through this we go,
From out the land of darkness, wherefrom streams
No ray, that thence we might its secret know:
Unto the Land of Life, through this we go—
Through this, the land of dreams; and dimly here
Perceive, while wandering trustful to and fro,
Things that in full-robed glory there appear,
Around the Eternal One, throughout the Eternal Year.
| [Poems by Gallagher in] The poets and poetry of the West | |