What do they do in Bylo-land, Silvery, shadowy Bylo-land? They swing no bat, they fly no kite: The tattered dolls are forgotten quite: But out through the gate of the City of Night The little ones glide in garments white To beautiful Bylo-land. What do they hear in Bylo-land, Glimmering, mystical Bylo-land? Ah, little ears hear wonderful things: Snatches of song that mother sings When the light sinks low, and the rocker swings; And lullaby sounds from hidden springs In the hills of Bylo-land. How win them back from Bylo-land, Magical, emerald Bylo-land? When the last faint star in heaven dies And the dusk grows wan where the mountains rise, When the great sun climbs the yellow skies, Then mother's kisses on drowsy eyes Woo back from Bylo-land. |