With milk-white dome and minaret 
Most fair my Promised City shone ; 
Beside a purple river set 
The waving palm-trees beckoned on, 

O yon, I said, must be my goal 
No matter what the danger be, 
The chosen haven of my soul. 
How hard soe'er the penalty. 

The goal is gained -- the journey done --
Yet naught is here but sterile space, 
But whirling sand and burning sun. 
And hot winds blowing in my face.