 | Phantasmagoria |  |
40
The Isle of Dreams.
In the soundless sea of sleep a magic island,
Coral-guarded in a still lagoon,
Waves with palmy vale and cypressed highland,
Gold with sunlight, silver with the moon.
He who, weary, on its shore emerges,
Hears no more the thunder of the deep,
Only dreamful booming of far surges
On the banks of sleep.
Coral-guarded in a still lagoon,
Waves with palmy vale and cypressed highland,
Gold with sunlight, silver with the moon.
He who, weary, on its shore emerges,
Hears no more the thunder of the deep,
Only dreamful booming of far surges
On the banks of sleep.
Only on the girdling coral reefs the washings
Of the shifting tide of deep repose,
Only on the inner beach the plashings
Of the inner sleep the reefs enclose,
Of the still lagoon, the lake enchanted,
Steeped in Lethe, peaceful as the grave,
And dim rustling of the forest haunted
By the haunted wave.
Of the shifting tide of deep repose,
Only on the inner beach the plashings
Of the inner sleep the reefs enclose,
Of the still lagoon, the lake enchanted,
Steeped in Lethe, peaceful as the grave,
And dim rustling of the forest haunted
By the haunted wave.
There are silver creeks and curves of golden beaches,
Golden sand, and silver dust of shells;
There the blue lake breaks in purple reaches
Far into the silence of the dells;
There the streams of thought run rippling laughter,
Sighs of longing and soft moans of love;
There the past is present, the hereafter
Opens out above.
Golden sand, and silver dust of shells;
There the blue lake breaks in purple reaches
Far into the silence of the dells;
There the streams of thought run rippling laughter,
Sighs of longing and soft moans of love;
There the past is present, the hereafter
Opens out above.
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Soft ideals bend in rainbow arcs of glory
Dewy with the holy tears of youth,
And the hot sands bubble up with story,
And the cool rocks trickle down with truth,
And the coveted bright fruits of pleasure,
Globe-like, ready to the hand, allure
On the same bough with ripe wisdom's treasure,
And both fruits are pure!
Dewy with the holy tears of youth,
And the hot sands bubble up with story,
And the cool rocks trickle down with truth,
And the coveted bright fruits of pleasure,
Globe-like, ready to the hand, allure
On the same bough with ripe wisdom's treasure,
And both fruits are pure!
Under Upas trees the poets there and sages,
Pillowed on their yellow and hoary hair,
Hear far off the movement of the ages,
And the discord turns to music there;
Dreaming maidens on their white arms leaning
Lie with limbs collapsed and lips apart
Letting ebbing sighs with amorous meaning
Filter from the heart.
Pillowed on their yellow and hoary hair,
Hear far off the movement of the ages,
And the discord turns to music there;
Dreaming maidens on their white arms leaning
Lie with limbs collapsed and lips apart
Letting ebbing sighs with amorous meaning
Filter from the heart.
If at times the wave breaks briny there and bitter,
If our ruined hopes are washed astrand,
Yet the sea-weeds gain a crimson glitter,
Salt grows crystal touching fairy-land:
With our hair in twining wreaths we mingle
Ribbons dank of griefs half-reconciled,
With our frozen tears we play like shingle,
Each a happy child.
If our ruined hopes are washed astrand,
Yet the sea-weeds gain a crimson glitter,
Salt grows crystal touching fairy-land:
With our hair in twining wreaths we mingle
Ribbons dank of griefs half-reconciled,
With our frozen tears we play like shingle,
Each a happy child.
Each one of us with the astral twilight falling
Hastens thither on a fairy barque,
Lulled by fairy music, lured by calling
Of soft Siren voices through the dark.
Round our prow the phosphorescent billow
Sparkles sheeny silver blue and green,
As we rest upon a rose-leaf pillow
'Neath a silken screen.
Hastens thither on a fairy barque,
Lulled by fairy music, lured by calling
Of soft Siren voices through the dark.
Round our prow the phosphorescent billow
Sparkles sheeny silver blue and green,
As we rest upon a rose-leaf pillow
'Neath a silken screen.
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Till, afar, off, o'er the din sea-line emerging
Coruscating pinnacles aspire,
As the love-moon rises o'er them, verging
In a dazzling line of molten fire;
And the green stars, palpitating, throbbing,
Beckon to us from the purple peaks,
And upon the shore the sea-waves sobbing
Melt in meteor-streaks.
Coruscating pinnacles aspire,
As the love-moon rises o'er them, verging
In a dazzling line of molten fire;
And the green stars, palpitating, throbbing,
Beckon to us from the purple peaks,
And upon the shore the sea-waves sobbing
Melt in meteor-streaks.
Nov. 23rd 1885.
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