We sleep, and o'er our senses throng a host of fancies vague and
queer;
They seem as real, as true as life--with waking thought they
disappear.
Existence is a mystery--what more who can say?
Men are but fleeting shadows who soon must pass away.
At night we lay us down to rest with drooping lids, then come
sweet dreams.
We wander o'er the flowery hills, by mossy banks and crystal
streams;
We stray where wild woods lend their shade, where birds are
singing gay and free;
We write our names upon the sand and gaze out o'er the restless
sea;
We laugh with friends upon the shore, we hear their call, they
speak our name!
We gaze into their tender eyes--all this while slumber holds its
claim.
Sleep has its world of joy and woe--in dreams we seem to know and
feel.
Such visions vanish with the morn--are not our lives as much
unreal?
Yes, so it is, through all our days, that all we say or think or
seem
Is but a phantom, but a myth--life is a dream within a dream.
The soul is resting through the night, day dawns for us with
parting breath;
And we shall all awake at last, from this, our sleep, from birth
till death.
--J.T. Hallett--