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There is a country in my mind,
  Lovelier than a poet blind
  Could dream of, who had never known
  This world of drought and dust and stone
  In all its ugliness: a place
  Full of an all but human grace;
  Whose dells retain the printed form
  Of heavenly sleep, and seem yet warm
  From some pure body newly risen;
  Where matter is no more a prison,
  But freedom for the soul to know
  Its native beauty. For things glow
  There with an inward truth and are
  All fire and colour like a star.
  And in that land are domes and towers
  That hang as light and bright as flowers
  Upon the sky, and seem a birth
  Rather of air than solid earth.

  Sometimes I dream that walking there
  In the green shade, all unaware
  At a new turn of the golden glade,
  I shall see her, and as though afraid
  Shall halt a moment and almost fall
  For passing faintness, like a man
  Who feels the sudden spirit of Pan
  Brimming his narrow soul with all
  The illimitable world. And she,
  Turning her head, will let me see
  The first sharp dawn of her surprise
  Turning to welcome in her eyes.
  And I shall come and take my lover
  And looking on her re-discover
  All her beauty:--her dark hair
  And the little ears beneath it, where
  Roses of lucid shadow sleep;
  Her brooding mouth, and in the deep
  Wells of her eyes reflected stars ...

  Oh, the imperishable things
  That hands and lips as well as words
  Shall speak! Oh movement of white wings,
  Oh wheeling galaxies of birds ...!

© Aldous Huxley