There is a country in my mind,
   Lovelier than a poet blind
   Could dream of, who had never known
   This world of drought and dust and stone
   In all its ugliness: a place
   Full of an all but human grace;
   Whose dells retain the printed form
   Of heavenly sleep, and seem yet warm
   From some pure body newly risen;
   Where matter is no more a prison,
   But freedom for the soul to know
   Its native beauty. For things glow
   There with an inward truth and are
   All fire and colour like a star.
   And in that land are domes and towers
   That hang as light and bright as flowers
   Upon the sky, and seem a birth
   Rather of air than solid earth.
   Sometimes I dream that walking there
   In the green shade, all unaware
   At a new turn of the golden glade,
   I shall see her, and as though afraid
   Shall halt a moment and almost fall
   For passing faintness, like a man
   Who feels the sudden spirit of Pan
   Brimming his narrow soul with all
   The illimitable world. And she,
   Turning her head, will let me see
   The first sharp dawn of her surprise
   Turning to welcome in her eyes.
   And I shall come and take my lover
   And looking on her re-discover
   All her beauty:—her dark hair
   And the little ears beneath it, where
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