Man never is, but always to be blessed.

- Alexander Pope

O, mystic Land of Some Day,
For thee our sails are spread;
Thy mountains blue are looming
Above us just ahead;
'Land ho!' the lookout's calling,
Down oars and sails are falling,
The land is just ahead!
O, ever just before us
Dim, hazy lies thy shore;
We see the breakers rolling,
We catch the mad surf's roar -
Yet vain the helmsman's steering,
Despite our hoping, fearing -
Forever, just ahead!
We know, O Land of Some Day,
That on thy sun-kissed heights
Embodied dreams await us
That filled the long, long nights;
That face to face beholding,
With eager arms enfolding,
These visions we shall clasp.
We know in halls of marble
Play fountains icy cold;
On walls of alabaster
Hang pictures framed in gold;
That thro' the night time calling,
The bulbul's notes are falling
Upon the ravished ear.
We know through thy deep valleys
The purest streamlets flow;
That on thy southern hillsides
The purplest vine-yards glow;
That in thy gold meads reaping,
The fairest maids are sweeping
Their sickles 'round the grain.
Yet never any nearer
Our vessel comes to land,
Though by the prow awaiting,
Right eagerly we stand;
Though winds blow never failing,
Still ever on we're sailing
To thee, O, Some Day Land!
O, mystic Land of Some Day,
Behold our sails spread wide,
As toward thy azure mountains
'Neath softest skies we glide;
'Land ho!' the lookout's calling,
Down oars and sails are falling -
Forever, just ahead!