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.