Dudas A Prisoner in Fairyland by Algernon Blackwood

Lo, every yearning thought that holds a tear, Yet finds no mission And lies untold, Waits, guarded in that labyrinth of gold, To reappear Upon some perfect night, Deathless not old But sweet with time and distance, And clothed as in a vision Of starry brilliance For the world's delight. JOHN HENRY CAMPDEN.

Then, as the days passed, practical life again caught Henry Rogers in its wholesome grip. Fairyland did not fade exactly, but it dipped a little below the horizon. Like hell and heaven, it was a state of mind, open potentially to all, but not to be enjoyed merely for the asking. Like other desirable things, it was to be 'attained.' Its remoteness and difficulty of access lent to it a haunting charm; for though its glory dimmed a little, there was a soft afterglow that shed its radiance even down Piccadilly and St. James's Street. He was always conscious of this land beyond the sunset; the stars shone brightly, though clouds or sunlight interfered to blur their message.