Prospero's island was made of common soil; flowers, trees, and grass
grow on it as they grow about the homes of work and care. The same sea
washes its shores which beats upon the coasts of ancient continents;
over it bends that same sky which enfolds all the generations of men.
Prospero's island is no mirage, hovering unreal and evanescent on the
far horizon; no impalpable phantom of reality floating like some
strayed flower on the lovely sea of dreams. It is as solid as the
earth, as real as the soul that fashioned it. No miracle was wrought,
no law violated, in its making. Beautiful, true, and enduring, it lies
upon the waters; a haven for men in the storms that beat upon the high
seas of this troubled life. That which is strange and wonderful about
it is the music which forever hovers about it; that which makes it
enchanted ground is the sound of voices sweet as the quietness of
sleep, the vision of clouds ready to drop unmeasured riches! An island
solid as the great world out of which it was fashioned, but sweet with
heavenly voices and sublime with heavenly visions--such is the island
of Prospero's enchantments. And such are all true ideals, dreams, and
aspirations. They have their roots in the same earth whence the
commonest weed grows; but the light and life of the heavens are theirs
also.
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