The River Of Sleep

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.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ella Wheeler Wilcox was an American author and poet, born on November 5, 1850, and died on October 30, 1919. She was known for her works expressing optimistic views and moral lessons. Her most famous book was 'Poems of Passion'. Her poem 'Solitude' contains the famous lines, 'Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone'. Over her career, Wilcox became popularly known as a 'people's poet'.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Helena

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

An Old Heart

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

Memory's River

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

As We Look Back (Rondeau)

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Isle Of Sleep.

In those dark mornings, deep in June,
    When brooding birds stir in the nest,
And heavy dews slip down the leaves,
    And drop into the rose's breast,
I woke and looked into the east,
    And saw no sign of coming day,
The pale cold morning rolled in mist,
    Slept on the hill-tops far away.

My window looked into the dawn,
    The slumbering dawn that was so nigh,
The shadow of the hills was drawn
    In waving lines against the sky.
But warmer hues began to tip
    The edges of the mountain cloud
And morning's rosy cheek and lip
    Glowed softly through her snow-pale shroud.

I turned and gazed into the west,
    The river murmured in my ear
'Gone night, and silence, dreams and rest,
    Another day of toil is here.'

...

Kate Seymour Maclean

The Beautiful Land Of Nod.

        Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,
    Your head like the golden-rod,
        And we will go sailing away from here
    To the beautiful Land of Nod.
        Away from life's hurry and flurry and worry,
    Away from earth's shadows and gloom,
        To a world of fair weather we'll float off together,
    Where roses are always in bloom.

        Just shut your eyes and fold your hands,
    Your hands like the leaves of a rose,
        And we will go sailing to those fair lands
    That never an atlas shows.
        On the North and the West they are bounded by rest,
    On the South and the East, by dreams;
        'Tis the country ideal, where nothing is real,
    But everything only seems.

        Just drop down the curtains o...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Island Of Endless Play

Said Willie to Tom, 'Let us hie away
To the wonderful Island of Endless Play.

It lies off the border of "No School Land,"
And abounds with pleasure, I understand.

There boys go swimming whenever they please
In a lovely river right under the trees.

And marbles are free, so you need not buy;
And kites of all sizes are ready to fly.

We sail down the Isthmus of Idle Delight -
We sail and we sail for a day and a night.

And then, if favoured by billows and breeze,
We land in the Harbour of Do-as-You-Please.

And there lies the Island of Endless Play,
With no one to say to us, Must, or Nay.

Books are not known in that land so fair,
Teachers are stoned if they set foot there.

Hurrah for the Island, so glad and free,
...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Water-Party On Beaulieu River, In The New Forest

    I thought 'twas a toy of the fancy, a dream
    That leads with illusion the senses astray,
    And I sighed with delight as we stole down the stream,
    While the sun, as he smiled on our sail, seemed to say,
    Rejoice in my light, ere it fade fast away!

    We left the loud rocking of ocean behind,
    And stealing along the clear current serene,
    The Phædria^[1] spread her white sails to the wind,
    And they who divided had many a day been,
    Gazed with added delight on the charms of the scene.

    Each bosom one spirit of peace seemed to feel;
    We heard not the tossing, the stir, and the roar
    Of the ocean without; we heard only the keel,
    The keel that went whispering along the green shore,
    And the stroke, as it dipp...

William Lisle Bowles

Leudemanns-On-The-River.

Toward even, when the day leans down
    To kiss the upturned face of night,
Out just beyond the loud-voiced town
    I know a spot of calm delight.
Like crimson arrows from a quiver
    The red rays pierce the waters flowing,
    While we go dreaming, singing, rowing
To Leudemanns-on-the-River.

The hills, like some glad mocking-bird,
    Send back our laughter and our singing,
While faint - and yet more faint is heard
    The steeple bells all sweetly ringing.
Some message did the winds deliver
    To each glad heart that August night,
    All heard, but all heard not aright,
By Leudemanns-on-the-River.

Night falls as in some foreign clime,
    Between the hills that slope and rise.
So dusk the shades at landing-time,
    We could n...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Forest River.

Amid the forest verdant shade,
        A peaceful river flowed:
Wild flowers their home on its banks had made,
The sunbeam's rays on its breast were laid,
        When the light of morning glowed.

By its marge the wolf had found a lair,
        He roamed through each lonely spot;
That deep designer, the beaver, there
Built his palace; the shaggy bear
        In the tall tree had his cot.

And voices sweet were heard on the bank
        Of the river's gentle flow;
The whip-poor-will sang when the sun had sank,
And the hum-drum bee to his home had shrank,
        When the wind of eve did blow.

The tree-frog joined with his sonorous call,
        The grasshopper chirped along,
The dormice came out of their underground hole,
The squirrel...

Harriet Annie Wilkins