The greenest meadows, deepest skies, are there;
There grows the rose of dreams, that never dies;
And there men's heads and hands and hearts and eyes
Are never, as here, too tired to find them fair.
Thither, when life becomes too hard to bear,
The poet and the painter steal away
To watch those glories of the night and day
Which here the days and nights so seldom wear.
In that brave land I, too, have part and lot.