We are drifting in a dreamland, I and thou,
Thou and I on a golden tide,
With keel of silver and carven prow,
And lilies floating on either side.
There are banks of myrtle and lotus flowers,
Violet odors and slumberous musk;
Grapes empurpling lush green bowers,
And great pomegranates, glowind and dusk.
There are waving branches of stately trees,
And amber dates in orchards of palm;
There are dripping combs of honey of bees,
And the wild fawn feeding without alarm.
Here drifting in dreamland, on we float,
Thy soul and mine for one blissful hour;
The bulbul 'plaining her low love-note,
The soft wind kissing the passion-flower.
And there groweth the wonder how this land
On whose still waters our souls lie basking,
Whose pastures green upon either hand
Invite our feet, is ours for the asking.
Oh! the nectarous fruitage, the rich red wine,
All, all are free for the lip to prove;
We may gather at will, in this land divine,
Her rose of Sharon, the rose of love.
Nepenthe hushes our life of care,
It is drowned and gone like a tale that is told;
We are radiant spirits in realms all fair,
Gilding for aye over sands of gold.
While blue over all is the wondrous heaven,
Fair clouds caressing the far-off skies;
I turn, and lo--is the secret given
Of this dream-vision within thine eyes!
