…from the quills of the dead white poets
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882)
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 traveler 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.