I'm roaming to-day in a far-away land
Where the roses and violets grow,
Where white waves break on a silvery strand,
And are lost on the cliffs below.
High up in a palace of sparkling gold
Where voices are hushed and still,
Where lips are silent and hearts are cold,
And the days are rich with a glory untold,
And no one disputes my will.

The walls are rich with an amber light,
And waters in fountains fall,
There are landscapes which vie with Italy bright,
And servants within my call;
There are sounds of music, bewitchingly sweet,
With tender, plaintive chords,
Like the patter of tiny innocent feet,
Or the voices of joy when loved ones meet
And their hearts speak out, their words.

All day from my turret I watch the sails
That fleck the sweep of the tide,-
Whose passengers all are joyous and hale,
As into the harbor they ride.
They enter my golden castle gate,-
They roam thro' my stately halls,-
They rest in chambers furnished in state,
Then close by my glory-throne they wait,
Until I shall answer their call.

There are faces bright with a merry light
And the music of long ago;
And others dark as Lethe's night
And as cold as the winter's snow.
Hands that meet mine in a trusty clasp
With blushes that come and go,
Strangers to pain in this world so vast,
With its pleasure now and sorrow at last,
In the land we do not know.

They are bound for this strangely mystical land
So shadowy, lone and so dim,
And my castle's a port on the ocean strand,
Where they wait for the ferryman grim,
To row them away from the silvery beach
Beyond the foam of the tide,
Where a palace looms far away from their reach,
Whose gates are closed with a clang to each
Who have chosen the pathway wide.

They tell me I'm treading with careless feet
This thorny, deceitful path,
When the Master cometh my face to greet
He will open his vials of wrath.
But I turn again to the world so real,
And my 'Fancy Land' grows dim,
Time's hand has taught me not to feel
The wounds which sympathy cannot heal,
And I anchor my faith in Him.