I know an isle that very truly seems
To me the Goal of Dreams.
Afar may swaying masthead lookout hear
The surf that sings of fear;
Anigh the water wearied eye may reach
Green palms upon the beach;
See scar'd and weathered ridges greatly rise,
Mere mounds beneath vast skies;
While, mountains massing over mountain height,
Lie clouds, in morning light;--
There weary seamen gorges have espied
Where little homes might hide,
Where, ceaseless, thro' the silent summer days
The scented zephyr plays
Through fronding fern and feathery fairy vine
That clothe the rock incline:
The whiff of Eden barely may compare,
To that sweet laden air:
There errant fancy, long content to roam,
Might bide, and be at home.
Or strong winged dreamer, winning to the shore,
Might dwell forevermore.
