But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes,
And right before her, on the horizon’s edge,
Behold, an island!  First, she looked away
Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore,
For she was all amazed, believing not,
And then she looked again, and there again
Behold, an island!  And the tide had turned,
The milky sea had got a purple rim,
And from the rim that mountain island rose,
Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak
The higher, and with fell and precipice,
It ran down steeply to the water’s brink;
But all the southern line was long and soft,
Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought,
Covered with forest or with sward.  But, look! 
The sun was on the island; and he showed
On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. 
Then Gladys held her breath; she said, “Indeed,
Indeed it is an island:  how is this,
I never saw it till this fortunate
Rare holiday?” And while she strained her eyes,
She thought that it began to fade; but not
To change as clouds do, only to withdraw
And melt into its azure; and at last,
Little by little, from her hungry heart,
That longed to draw things marvellous to itself,
And yearned towards the riches and the great
Abundance of the beauty God hath made,
It passed away.  Tears started in her eyes,
And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone;
The careless sea had quite forgotten it,
And all was even as it had been before.

And Gladys wept, but there was luxury
In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed,
“O, what a little while!  I am afraid
I shall forget that purple mountain isle,
The lovely hollows atween her snow-clad peaks,
The grace of her upheaval where she lay
Well up against the open.  O, my heart,
Now I remember how this holiday
Will soon be done, and now my life goes on
Not fed; and only in the noonday walk
Let to look silently at what it wants,
Without the power to wait or pause awhile,
And understand and draw within itself
The richness of the earth.  A holiday! 
How few I have!  I spend the silent time
At work, while all THEIR pupils are gone home,
And feel myself remote.  They shine apart;
They are great planets, I a little orb;
My little orbit far within their own
Turns, and approaches not.  But yet, the more
I am alone when those I teach return;
For they, as planets of some other sun,
Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ring
Once in a cycle.  O, how poor I am! 
I have not got laid up in this blank heart
Any indulgent kisses given me
Because I had been good, or yet more sweet,
Because my childhood was itself a good
Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise,
And comforting.  An orphan-school at best
Is a cold mother in the winter time
(’Twas mostly winter when new orphans came),
An unregarded mother in the spring.