Still with these a man may travel to the last foot-weary mile,
Halting for a dream of Dixie in the garden depths awhile.
In the mine's untrammelled shanty or Johannesburg cabouse,
O'er the cards and vicious whisky, men may query in a jest,
How she struck the trail to Cape Town in her paint and lacquered shoes,
With her skirts' pathetic draggle, hopeless, weary like the rest,
Here, within the pure bright Gardens, lei the fairy folk undo
What the mortal folk have made her, for a blissful hour or two.
Evermore through sun and shadow wafting down upon the grass,
Takes the dreamers back to Dixie—wheresoever that may be,—
To the lost health and the mother, to the lost youth and the lass
Over all the plains and mountains, over all the leagues of sea:
All roads but lead to quiet, though the heat and noise be long,—
Grace for the sleepers, by your leave, and this their slumber song!
