And leave us to know ’tis but dreaming.

And the name of this isle is the Beautiful Past,

And we bury our treasures all there:

There are beings of beauty too lovely to last;

There are blossoms of snow, with the dust o’er them cast;

There are tresses and ringlets of hair.

There are fragments of song only memory sings,

And the words of a dear mother’s prayer;

There’s a harp long unsought, and a lute without strings—

Hallowed tokens that love used to wear.