The sails we see on the oceanare as white as white can be;
but never one in the harbor,
as white as the sails at sea.
And the clouds that crown the mountain
with purple and gold delight,
turn to cold gray mist and vapor,
Ere ever we reach the height.
Oh! distance, thou dear enchanter,
still hold in they magic veil
the glory of far-off sail!
Hide in thy robes of splendor,
Oh! mountain cold and gray!
Oh! sail in thy snowy whiteness,
come not into port, I pray!
I like this poem, which brings to mind the joy of anticipation, but often when realized, the romance loses its luster. I wonder how long one must live before we come to realize this and learn to live in the moment and enjoy life's enchantments but keep our feet firmly planted on present ground.
Anonymous, Photo by Gerhard Fuhs
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