Fata Morgana

O sweet illusions of Song,
    That tempt me everywhere,
In the lonely fields, and the throng
    Of the crowded thoroughfare!

I approach, and ye vanish away,
    I grasp you, and ye are gone;
But ever by nigh an day,
    The melody soundeth on.

As the weary traveller sees
    In desert or prairie vast,
Blue lakes, overhung with trees,
    That a pleasant shadow cast;

Fair towns with turrets high,
    And shining roofs of gold,
That vanish as he draws nigh,
    Like mists together rolled,--

So I wander and wander along,
    And forever before me gleams
The shining city of song,
    In the beautiful land of dreams.

But when I would enter the gate
    Of that golden atmosphere,
It is gone, and I wander and wait
    For the vision to reappear.