124
A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND.
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lids of thy sleep dispart?
Only the song of a secret bird.
The green land's name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller's chart,
And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant's mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,
And sleep's are the tunes in its tree‑tops heard;
No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird.
envoi.
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love's truth or of light love's art,
Only the song of a secret bird.
