Oasis.

There is an emerald glade of dream Where light haunts round a brimming well

So deep its source, no one can tell What hidden river feeds its stream
There is a time when evening brings The song of birds, divinely sweet, The prints of little fretted feet, The preen of sky-enchanted wings.
Here may a man his two hands cup And, leaning in a pool of shade, Drink from the bowl his need has made
And seven times seven draw water up.
But he must know a restless spell When comes the caravan of day To call him his appointed way, Nor shall he find again that well.
But ever after feel the green Dripping of fern fronds in his heart; Hear music in a place apart, Where only gentleness has been.

—Winifred Tennant.