Mirage

With milk-white dome and minaret

Most fair my Promised City shone;

Beside a purple river set

The waving palm-trees beckoned on,

O yon, I said, must be my goal

No matter what the danger be,

The chosen haven of my soul.

How hard soe'er the penalty.

The goal is gained -- the journey done --

Yet naught is here but sterile space,

But whirling sand and burning sun.

And hot winds blowing in my face.