A Ballad of Dreamland I hid my heart a nest of roses, Out of the sun’s way, apart; a softer bed than the soft white snow’s , Under the roses I hid my heart. Why would it sleep not? why it start, When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred? What made sleep flutter his wings and part? Only the song of a secret bird. Lie still, I , for the ’s wing closes, And mild leaves muffle the keen sun’s dart; Lie still, for the on the warm seas dozes, And the is unquieter yet than thou . Does a thought in thee still as a thorn’s wound smart? Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred? What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart? Only the song of a secret bird. The land’s name that a 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 the tunes in its tree-tops heard; No hound’s note wakens the wildwood […]

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