We often speak of golden land,
That far off room of Summerland.
And smell and see and feel the sun,
Even when the day is done.
We smell the salty air and see
The frothy folds of one dark sea.
who's home is lit by tiny trains
That bravely run outside their lanes.
We see, and feel a novel hymn,
On the streets we walk by whim.
Peering down the whitewashed halls,
To search for life behind youth's walls.
We feel the freckled face of night,
The highest roof of speckled light,
And even if his breath is cold
This night, the land still shown of gold.
We found the land we wished to see,
Among the warmth of company.
The earth is drear, yet oh so grand,
Is that room of Summerland.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
We often speak of golden land,
That far off room of Summerland.
And smell and see and feel the sun,
Even when the day is done.
We smell the salty air and see
The frothy folds of one dark sea.
who's home is lit by tiny trains
That bravely run outside their lanes.
We see, and feel a novel hymn,
On the streets we walk by whim.
Peering down the whitewashed halls,
To search for life behind youth's walls.
We feel the freckled face of night,
The highest roof of speckled light,
And even if his breath is cold
This night, the land still shown of gold.
We found the land we wished to see,
Among the warmth of company.
The earth is drear, yet oh so grand,
Is that room of Summerland.