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What is that shimmering line of white
Gliding under the stark midnight--
Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?


There is never a sound save the night bird's cry,
And the languid water lapsing by--
Under the arch of a leaden sky.


'T is the winding Garavogue's spectral crew,
Bound for the port of dreams-come-true--
With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.


Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;
Yet who can say?--not we!--not we!--
Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.


'T is so with all of the visions of man,
Howe'er he strive and howe'er he plan--
For life, alas, is a narrow span!