Classic Poem

Beyond the last horizon's rim,
—Beyond adventure's farthest quest,
Somewhere they rise, serene and dim,
—The happy, happy Hills of Rest.

Upon their sunlit slopes uplift
—The castles we have built in Spain—
While fair amid the summer drift
—Our faded gardens flower again.

Sweet hours we did not live go by
—To soothing note, on scented wing;
In golden-lettered volumes lie
—The songs we tried in vain to sing.

They all are there: the days of dream
—That build the inner lives of men;
The silent, sacred years we deem
—The might be, and the might have been.

Some evening when the sky is gold
—I'll follow day into the west;
Nor pause, nor heed, till I behold
—The happy, happy Hills of Rest.