Where are the domes of pure mysterious gold,
And myriad angel wings in ordered flight
My childish gaze could once at eve behold
Before the mountains melted into night?

Where is the island, shy abode of bliss,
Which seemed through summer haze to rise and float,
The isle which merchant fleets could never kiss,
But once stood still for Brendan’s hermit boat?

Where are my paladins with souls of snow,
Whose swords were fashioned at no mortal forge,
The men who rode where Arthur bade them go
To meet the dragon in his dungeon gorge?

O happy, happy dreams, ye were no lies,
No true apostle made me put away
Such “childish things,” which mirrored to mine eyes
Faith, Hope and Love. I call you back to stay.