Distance, the Enchantress

The sails we see on the ocean

are white as white can be,

but never one in the harbour

as white as the sails at sea.

And the clouds that crown the mountain

with purple and gold delight

turn to cold gray mist and vapor

before we can reach its height.

Stately fair the vessel

that comes not near the beach,

Lofty and grand the mountain,

whose height we may never reach.

Oh distance, thou dear enchantress,

still hold in thy magic veil

the glory of far-off mountains,

the gleam of the far-off sail.