An elusive dream is the eternal quest for romance–where is it?

Is it over the purple hues of some snow-capped mountain-peak?

Or is it in the blurred, white haze of the noon-tide desert?

May it be round the bend of some swift-flowing, far-off river?

Or off the curve of a street in some half-forgotten old-world city?

Is it, again, in the scent of a cluster of moon-washed flowers?

Or in the soft, tender lilts of an old, unfamiliar song?

Maybe, in none of these it is, or anywhere in the world's sound or sense;

But, if at all it is, it's in the depths of the human heart itself,

Like a spring bubbling forth from Time's beginning till end.