Far, far away, where desolation ends, 
There is a water of serenest blue ; 
And by it stands, as patient and as true 
As in the past, his form to whom I turn, 
And break my bondage and would touch anew 
His holy lips ;  my body and spirit yearn ; 
He fades away, and fires of Hell within me burn. 
 
Still, as I journey through the waste, I see 
A silver figure more divine arise ; 
The Christ usurps the horizon for me, 
And He requickens the forgotten skies ; 
His golden locks are burning on my eyes, 
And He with rosy finger points the way, 
The blood-wrought mystic path of Paradise 
That leads at last through yonder icy spray 
Of Death to the blue vaults of the undying day. 
 
But oh !  this desert is a weary land, 
Poisons alone their prickly heads lift high ; 
The sun, a globe of fury, still doth stand 
In the dark basin of the burning sky. 
There is no water, no, nor herb, and I 
 
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