The sails we see on the ocean
are white as white can be,
but never one in the harbour
as white as the sails at sea.

And the clouds that crown the mountain
with purple and gold delight
turn to cold gray mist and vapor
before we can reach its height.

Stately fair the vessel
that comes not near the beach,
Lofty and grand the mountain,
whose height we may never reach.

Oh distance, thou dear enchantress,
still hold in thy magic veil
the glory of far-off mountains,
the gleam of the far-off sail.