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.