Visions

There are hills too steep for our feet to climb,

There are goals too far to gain,

And in every breast there’s a glorious best

The dreamer shall never attain.

For the poet dies with his songs unsung,

And the artist at last grows faint,

And he sins to sleep and the grave must keep

The pictures he’d planned to paint.

We never can finish the work of life,

Nor live to our fullest here,

We must carry away from its house of clay

The vision we’ve cherished dear.

We dream fair dreams for the years to be,

But merchant and toiler, too,

And the soldier brave, take into the grave

Some deeds they had hoped to do.

Perhaps they sing at their sweetest now,

Those poets of yesterday,

And have caught the themes of the golden dreams

Which came from the far away.

Perhaps the painters on canvas true,

Now see with a clearer eye

And paint the things of the visionings

That were theirs in the days gone by.

Oh, never we reach to our fullest height,

And never we do our all;

We must turn away, at the close of day

When the tools from our fingers fall.

But it isn’t failure to hold a dream,

That never on earth comes true,

For the task of worth that we miss on earth

Are reserved for our souls to do.