From the realm of old-world story
There beckons a lily hand,
That calls up the sweetness, the glory,
The sounds of a magic land.
Where huge flowers droop in the splendor
Of closing day's golden red,
And gaze on each other with tender
Looks as of lovers new wed;
Where all the trees, too, have voices,
And all like a chorus sing,
And a sound as of music rejoices
In the babble of every spring;
On the air songs of true love are swelling,
Such as never elsewhere thou hast heard,
Till by yearnings divine beyond telling
Thy soul is divinely stirr'd.
Oh me, if I might go thither,
And gladden my careworn breast,
Shake off all the sorrows that wither,
Be happy and truly at rest!
Ah, many a time in my dreaming
Through that blessed region I roam!
Then the morning sun comes with its beaming,
And scatters it all like foam.
