Deadman ’s Island

It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon.

And we two dreaming the dusk away. Beneath the drift of at twilight grey- Beneath the drowse of an ending day. And the curve of a golden moon.

It is dark in the Lost Lagoon,

And gone are the depths of haunting blue, The grouping gulls, and the old canoe, The singing firs, and the dusk snd—yoII, And gone is the golden moon.

0! lure of the Lost Lagoon-

I dream tonight that my paddle blurs

The p 1e shade where the seaweed stirs- I hear e call of the singing firs

In the hush of the golden moon.

——"—'-T‘ OR many minutes we stood silent- ly, leaning on the western rail of the bridge as we watched the sun set across that beautiful little basin of water known as Coal Harbor. I have always resented that jarring, un- attractive name, for years ago, when I first plied paddle across the gunwale of a light little canoe, and idled about its margin, I

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