Oh what is that country
        And where can it be,
Not mine own country,
        But dearer far to me?
Yet mine own country,
        If I one day may see
Its spices and cedars,
        Its gold and ivory.

As I lie dreaming
        It rises, that land;
There rises before me
        Its green golden strand,
With the bowing cedars
        And the shining sand;
It sparkles and flashes
        Like a shaken brand.

Do angels lean nearer
        While I lie and long?
I see their soft plumage
        And catch their windy song,
Like the rise of a high tide
        Sweeping full and strong;
I mark the outskirts
        Of their reverend throng.
Oh what is a king here,
        Or what is a boor?
Here all starve together,
        All dwarfed and poor;
Here Death's hand knocketh
        At door after door,
He thins the dancers
        From the festal floor.

Oh what is a handmaid,
        Or what is a queen?
All must lie down together
        Where the turf is green,
The foulest face hidden,
        The fairest not seen;
Gone as if never
        They had breathed or been.

Gone from sweet sunshine
        Underneath the sod,
Turned from warm flesh and blood
        To senseless clod;
Gone as if never
        They had toiled or trod,
Gone out of sight of all
        Except our God.
Shut into silence
        From the accustomed song
Shut into solitude
        From all earth's throng,
Run down though swift of foot,
        Thrust down though strong;
Life made an end of,
        Seemed it short or long.

Life made an end of,
        Life but just begun;
Life finished yesterday,
        Its last sand run;
Life new-born with the morrow
        Fresh as the sun:
While done is done for ever;
        Undone, undone.

And if that life is life,
        This is but a breath,
The passage of a dream
        And the shadow of death;
But a vain shadow
        If one considereth;
Vanity of vanities,
        As the Preacher saith.