'Way out on a sandy plain?
Or may it be found where the roses climb
Over trellises built so high
That if you would pluck off the topmost one
You'd have to climb up to the sky?
Or where all the streets are so smooth and so clean
That buggies and bicycles, too,
Glide along with all ease in the sweet dreamy breeze,
Like balloons in soft heavens of blue?
Mother: Not there, my child, not there.