Upon the frontier of this shadowy land

We, pilgrims of eternal sorrow, stand:

What realm lies forward, with its happier store

Of forests green and deep,

Of valleys hushed in sleep,

And lakes most peaceful? ’Tis the land of

Evermore.

2 Very far off its marble cities seem—

Very far off—beyond our sensual dream—

Its woods, unruffled by the wild wind’s roar:

Yet does the turbulent surge

Howl on its very verge.

One moment—and we breathe within the

Evermore.

3 They whom we loved and lost so long ago,

Dwell in those cities far from mortal woe—

Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carrollings soar.

Eternal peace have they:

God wipes their tears away:

They drink that river of life which flows for

Evermore.

4 Thither we hasten through these regions dim,

But, lo! the wide wings of the seraphim

Shine in the sunset! On that joyous shore

Our lightened hearts shall know

The life of long ago:

The sorrow-burdened path shall fade for

Evermore.