Only the song of a secret bird.
* * * * *
III.
The green land’s name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller’s chart,
And sweet as the fruit on its tree that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchants’ 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 wild wood hart,