The river of dreams runs gently down,
      With a leisurely flow that bears my bark
      Out of the visionless woods of dark,
  Into a glory that seems to crown
      Valley and hill with light from far,
      Clearer than sun or moon or star,
      Luminous, wonderful, weird, oh, mark
      How the radiance pulses everywhere,
      In the shadowless vault of lucid air! 
  Over the mountains shimmering,
  Up from the fountains glimmering,—­
      Tis the mystical glow of the inner light,
      That shines in the very noon of night,
  While the river of dreams runs down.

  The river of dreams runs murmuring down,
      Through the fairest garden that ever grew;
      And now, as my boat goes drifting through,
  A hundred voices arise to drown
      The river’s whisper, and charm my ear
      With a sound I have often longed to hear,—­
      A magical music, strange and new,
      The wild-rose ballad, the lilac-song,
      The virginal chant of the lilies’ throng,
  Blue-bells silverly ringing,
  Pansies merrily singing,—­
      For all the flowers have found their voice;
      And I feel no wonder, but only rejoice,
  While the river of dreams runs down.

  The river of dreams runs broadening down,
      Away from the peaceful garden-shore,
      With a current that deepens more and more,
  By the league-long walls of a mighty town;
      And I see the hurrying crowds of men
      Gather like clouds and dissolve again;
      But never a face I have seen before. 
      They come and go, they shift and change,
      Their ways and looks are wild and strange,—­
  This is a city haunted,
  A multitude enchanted! 
      At the sight of the throng I am dumb with fear,
      And never a sound from their lips I hear,
  While the river of dreams runs down.

  The river of dreams runs darkly down
      Into the heart of a desolate land,
      With ruined temples half-buried in sand,
  And riven hills, whose black brows frown
      Over the shuddering, lonely wave. 
      The air grows dim with the dust of the grave;
      No sign of life on the dreary strand;
      No ray of light on the mountain’s crest;
      And a weary wind that cannot rest
  Comes down the valley creeping,
  Lamenting, wailing, weeping,—­
      I strive to cry out, but my fluttering breath
      Is choked with the clinging fog of death,
  While the river of dreams runs down.

  The river of dreams runs trembling down,
      Out of the valley of nameless fear,
      Into a country calm and clear,
  With a mystical name of high renown,—­
      A name that I know, but may not tell,—­
      And there the friends that I loved so well,
      Old companions forever dear,
      Come beckoning down to the river shore,