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.