Poems (Procter)/Illusion

by Adelaide Anne Procter

For works with similar titles, see Illusion.

ILLUSION.

HERE the golden corn is bending, And the singing reapers pass,Where the chestnut woods are sending Leafy showers upon the grass,

The blue river onward flowing Mingles with its noisy strife,The murmur of the flowers growing, And the hum of insect life.

I from that rich plain wae gazing Towards the snowy mountains high, Who their gleaming peaks were raising Up against the purple sky.

And the glory of their shining, Bathed in clouds of rosy light,Set my weary spirit pining For a home so pure and bright!

So I left the plain, and weary, Fainting, yet with hope sustained,Toiled through pathways long and dreary Till the mountain-top was gained.

Lo! the height that I had taken, As so shining from below,Was a desolate, forsaken Region of perpetual snow.

I am faint, my feet are bleeding, All my feeble strength is worn,In the plain no soul is heeding, I am here alone, forlorn.

Lights are shining, bells are tolling, In the busy vale below;Near me night's black clouds are rolling, Gathering o'er a waste of snow.

So I watch the river winding Through the misty fading plain,Bitter are the tear-drops blinding, Bitter useless toil and pain,—Bitterest of all the finding That my dream was false and vain!