Where the waves of burning cloud are rolled On the further shore of the sunset sea, In a land of wonder that none behold, There blooms a rose on the Dreamland Tree That stands in the Garden of Mystery Where the River of Slumber softly flows; And whenever a dream has come to be, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.
In the heart of the tree, on a branch of gold, A silvern bird sings endlessly A mystic song that is ages old, A mournful song in a minor key, Full of the glamour of faery; And whenever a dreamer's ears unclose To the sound of that distant melody, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.
Dreams and visions in hosts untold Throng around on the moonlit lea: Dreams of age that are calm and cold, Dreams of youth that are fair and free-- Dark with a lone heart's agony, Bright with a hope that no one knows-- And whenever a dream and a dream agree, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.
Princess, you gaze in a reverie Where the drowsy firelight redly glows; Slowly you raise your eyes to me ... A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.
These flowers of June The gates of memory unbar; These flowers of June Such old-time harmonies retune, I fain would keep the gates ajar, So full of sweet enchantment are These flowers of June.
Was it the bloom of the laurel sprays, That wakened remembrance of singing birds? Or, was it the charm of remembered words, That set my heart singing through somber days? I longed for the summer-time, flower and tree; And lo! the summer-time came with thee. The bloom is no more, but the charm still stays.
There is a garden in the twilight lands Of Memory, where troops of butterflies Flutter adown the cypress paths, and bands Of flowers mysterious droop their drowsy eyes.
There through the silken hush come footfalls faint And hurried through the vague parterres, and sighs Whispering of rapture or of sweet complaint Like ceaseless parle of bees and butterflies.
And by one lonely pathway steal I soon To find the flowerings of the old delight Our hearts together knew--when lo, the moon Turns all the cypress alleys into white.
Dark is the iris meadow, Dark is the ivory tower, And lightly the young moth's shadow Sleeps on the passion-flower.
Gone are our day's red roses. So lovely and lost and few, But the first star uncloses A silver bud in the blue.