  What is that shimmering line of white Gliding under the stark midnight— Gliding—gliding—gliding—gliding— Where the river gleams when the moon is bright? There is never a sound save the night bird’s cry, And the languid water lapsing by— Lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—lapsing— Under the arch of a leaden sky. ’T is the winding Garavogue’s spectral crew, Bound for the port of dreams-come-true— Rowing—rowing—rowing—rowing— With a swinging stroke that is firm and true. Do they ever reach their bourn? may be; Yet who can say?—not we!—not we!— Fading—fading—fading—fading— Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea. ’T is so with all of the visions of man, Howe’er he strive and howe’er he plan— Fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—fleeting— For life, alas, is a narrow span! |
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