Poem: From Year to Year

There is a quiet place I know
that's never touched by winter's snow.
There is a land uncharted yet
o'er which the sun will never set.

Its fields are green, its valley wide,
its river rushes forth with pride,
and of that cool, refreshing drink,
there's nothing like it, I should think:

No wine so sweet, no dream so dear,
no water ever ran so clear;
to taste it is to die to death,
and living on, to draw new breath.

But I no more shall taste its flow,
nor ever to that place will go;
and weary on this noisy sphere,
I tarry on from year to year.