PARCHED, panting, he awoke—phantasmal light Haunting the hollows of his fevered eyes— And muttered of his journeyings in the night, Striving in words the vision to devise :— An Island, lit with beauty like a flower, Its sea of sapphire ringed with ocean's snow ; Its air a music, seeming hour by hour From urn divine of silence forth to flow.
A heart all innocence, and innately wise, Life there a song of love had seemed to be : " A candle whose flame," he stammered, " never dies, But feeds on light itself perpetually . . .
Me . . . this—a thing corrupt on grave's cold brink ; And into outer darkness soon to sink ! "
The tired nurse yawned. " It was a dream," she said.
" But this is real ! Look, it's nearly day." She smoothed the pillow for his sweat-dark head, And muttered, " Mental," as she turned away.