In a dear land, in a dim land,
By well-remembered streams,
Bare trees in moorland hollows stand
Where a lost sunset gleams;
There joy and memory hand-in-hand
Wander: its flowers are dreams.

There often, waking or asleep
My lingering spirit strays,
There where the wild winds sigh and sweep
Along the wintry ways,
And footfalls rustle in the deep
Dead drift of yesterdays.