  “They come, the shapes of joy and woe, The airy crowds of long ago, The dreams and fancies known of yore That have been and shall be no more; They change the cloisters of the night Into a garden of delight.”—Golden Legend. When sorrow’s dull clouds o’ershadow the soul, And the sunshine of life is concealed, When the waves of misfortune still over us roll, There is sometimes a refuge and shield, In a calm little harbour lit up by its sun, With genial though transient beams, ’Tis hailed as a shelter whene’er it is won— The Beautiful Island of Dreams. When pursued by avenging demons of hate, The wretched oft pause in their path, And find a retreat and a respite from fate— A brief lull in the tempest of wrath; In the fair fairy bowers where in shadowy light, Illusion reality seems, Whose oceans are bridged by the visions of night— The Beautiful Island of Dreams. And still in this desert as onward we roam, On a dull and a desolate track, We sometimes in Dreamland look back; And in slumber behold the dear friends that have gone; And the past or the future now seems Rich with memory or hope to that oasis flown— The Beautiful Island of Dreams. Alex Wilmot. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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