There are spots on neither heaven or earth

More passing strange than truth,

That are known to me more intimately

Than the place of my youth and birth.

No book or map will show that land;

Never another it's shore has seen.

No rover free can cross the sea

That separates fact from dream.

One place there is, a stretch of hill,

Up which I toil, and try

To break the bond and get beyond

To the slope where the song birds cry.

A house I know on a lonely street

Where 'tis always dark and still.

A great voice calls through the empty halls

And I shiver with fear and chill.

There's a pleasant pace in that far land

With paths bordered by flowers tall -

A garden fair, and waiting there

Is a maid, by the garden wall.

No road that runs can take me there

No hand point the way to those scenes.

These placed I know, but I may not go,

For they're all in the land of dreams.