There is a little window.
’Tis called, I think, a screen.
Thru it the strangest people
And fairest things are seen.
Calm valleys, silent woodlands,
Tall summits, shining streams,
Long roads and busy cities
Are in this world of dreams.
There weary hearts may travel,
Each to its wonted place;
And lonely ones may revel
In pictured act and face.
There to our hidden longings
The waiting answer gleams
The while our thoughts inhabit
This pictured world of dreams.