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We sail the vast uncharted deep, the wondrous water-world
Somewhere to find, somewhere to see, somehow to win, though late
The fair far haven in the sea of Island Fortunate.
Cradled by some consoling dream he who should vigil keep
An hour before a shameful death, sinks smiling into sleep.
And Mirage-mock'd, the cast-away, scanning a sail-less sea
Leaps headlong down the glassy deep in meadow green to be;
It turns the wasted wilderness to water'd paradise
Last vision, as the sandstorm blinds the dying pilgrim's eyes.
Our life is ruled by Mirages, and just beyond the gate
Whether of Horn or Ivory lies Island Fortunate.
