He let out the sails and away went the three Over the waters of Ignorant Sea, Out and away to Stupid Land; And they live there yet, I understand. And there’s where every one goes, they say, Who seeks the Island of Endless Play.
THERE are curious isles in the River of Sleep, Curious isles without number. We’ll visit them all as we leisurely creep Down the winding stream whose current is deep, In our beautiful barge of Slumber.
The very first isle in this wonderful stream Quite close to the shore is lying, And after a supper of cakes and cream We come to the Night-Mare-Isle with a scream, And hurry away from it crying.
And next is the Island-of-Lullaby, And every one there rejoices. The winds are only a perfumed sigh, And the birds that sing in the treetops try To imitate Mothers’ voices.
A little beyond is the Isle-of-Dreams; Oh, that is the place to be straying. Everything there is just as it seems; Dolls are real and sunshine gleams, And no one calls us from playing.
And then we come to the drollest isle, And the funniest sounds come pouring Down from its borderlands once in a while, And we lean o’er our barge and listen and smile; For that is the Isle-of-Snoring.
And the very last isle in the River of Sleep Is the sunshiny Isle-of-Waking. We see it first with our eyes a-peep, And we give a yawn—then away we leap, The barge of Slumber forsaking.
NOW, dear, it isn’t the bold things, Great deeds of valour and might, That count the most in the summing up of life at the end of the day. But it is the doing of old things, Small acts that are just and right; And doing them over and over again, no matter what others say; In smiling at fate, when you want to cry, and in keeping at work when you want to play— Dear, those are the things that count.
And, dear, it isn’t the new ways Where the wonder-seekers crowd That lead us into the land of content, or help us to find our own. But it is keeping to true ways, Though the music is not so loud, And there may be many a shadowed spot where we journey along alone; In flinging a prayer at the face of fear, and in changing into a song a groan— Dear, these are the things that count.
My dear, it isn’t the loud part Of creeds that are pleasing to God, Not the chant of a prayer, or the hum of a hymn, or a jubilant shout or song. But it is the beautiful proud part Of walking with feet faith-shod; And in loving, loving, loving through all, no matter how things go wrong; In trusting ever, though dark the day, and in keeping your hope when the way seems long— Dear, these are the things that count.