Fata Morgana

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    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.