Classic Poem

There is a rare region
Whose heavenward scope
Holds legion on legion
Of angels of hope—
At the end of the rainbow.

Endure the dull present,
Its toil, moil, and sorrow!
We shall all find that pleasant
Elysium tomorrow—
At the end of the rainbow.

There the sky never varies
From glory to gloom;
There groves and green prairies
Eternally bloom—
At the end of the rainbow.

The bees hive no honey
In that happy land;
For the days are all sunny,
The air always bland,
At the end of the rainbow.

There Hope climbs the mountains
And rests in the sky;
There Peace drinks at fountains
That never go dry—
At the end of the rainbow.

There joys above measure
Are blisses benign;
There life's ruby, pleasure,
Melts into sweet wine—
At the end of the rainbow.

There Love from its madness
Of longing and moan
Leaps whole in the gladness
Of finding its own—
At the end of the rainbow.

No shadow Cimmerian
Of ignorance there;
But full the Pierian
Spring jets in the air—
At the end of the rainbow.

There glitter the riches
That time never rusts;
There glory's proud niches
Are filled with our busts—
At the end of the rainbow.

Endure the dull present,
Its toil, moil, and sorrow;
We shall all find the pleasant
Elysium tomorrow—
At the end of the rainbow.