Ah , give us back our dear dead Land of Dreams!
The far, faint, misty hills, the tangled maze
Of brake and thicket; down green woodland ways
The hush of summer, and on amber streams
Bright leaves afloat, amid the foam that creams
Round crannied boulders, where the shallows blaze.
Then life ran joyous through glad, golden days
And silver nights beneath the moon's pale beams.
Now all is lost. There glooms a dark morass
Where throbbed the thrush across the dappled lawn.
Oh, never more shall fiery pageants pass,
Nor dance of light-limbed satyr, nymph and faun,
Adrift among the whispering meadow-grass,
On wind-swept uplands, yearning toward the dawn.