Of Fairyland

Here all is beautiful: the trees, the air,
The earth, and sky one shining style share.
No bush would dare bring forth a blemished rose,
And even mud and dirt are neat and fair.

Each one who lives within own beauty rare:
Each stance and motion is a perfect pose.
Though age is theirs, no marks of time they bear,
Nor bend they with the weight of mortal care.

In edifices brilliant and insane,
They feast; and councils hold; and feast again.
For all their perfect fare is empty light —
A pale token of the life they feign.

Taste not their wine and fruit, or else remain,
Forever severed from the true and plain.
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