Poems (Ford)/Dream-Life

For works with similar titles, see Dream-Life.

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DREAM-LIFE.
How the human heart keeps striving,Planning, toiling and contriving,Grasping at the glowing visions  O'er which Fancy's pinions wave;Whether joys or woes surround us,Still our thoughts will stray beyond us,For we are a race of dreamers From the cradle to the grave.
When with buoyant step glad childhoodGaily roams through vale and wildwood,Scenes still brighter seem to 'wait him Where his coming youth appears, ​For the rosy glow of distanceAnd the force of Time's resistanceBlend, and weave bright robes of beauty To array the future years.
Youth arrives,—and still he glancesOnward, onward, for he fanciesThat his hand will soon be potent As the magic lamp of old;And he builds an airy palace,In which pleasure's glowing chaliceMay be freely quaffed when manhood Has the scroll of life unrolled.
But at last youth's lordly castleVanishes, with serf and vassal;To the sterner eye of manhood Life presents a darker page;All youth's rosy hopes have faded;On life's journey, tired and jaded,Still he hopefully looks forward To the calm repose of age.
Now the snows of age descendingOn his brow, foretell the endingOf life's trials, joys and sorrows, And in vain he seeks for rest;To the years no more returning ​He looks back with wistful yearning,Then hope guides his vision upward To the mansions of the blest.
Thus in dreams we wander ever,Living in the present never,But with longing eye still looking To the future or the past,Till our heart-strings chill and shiverAs the waves of death's cold riverPut an end to all our dreaming, And the real comes at last.
Were our lightest wishes granted,All for which our hearts e'er panted,We would still sigh after something, Discontented with our lot;Still we fancy it but seemingWhen we are what we've been dreaming,And unceasingly endeavor To become what we are not.
Let us strive to grasp the realWhile we picture the ideal,And the while the brain is dreaming Toil with strong, untiring hand;Vain are all our dreams of beauty,If we shrink from life's stern duty,—For the thoughts that bring not action Are but letters traced on sand.
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