“Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their developement have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy.”—
~Byron.
Shall I meet thee, gentle shade,
When from earth I fade away?
Weary on my pillow laid,
Dost thou hear the poet's lay?
Haunting thoughts and white-robed dreams
Guide me with prophetic pow'r—
Through my lattice morning streams,
Vanished is the Ideal hour.
Does the soul 'neath night's dark shroud
Roam amid the starry skies,
Riding on a drifting cloud,
Panting after Paradise?
Does it seek communion sweet
With the purer world above,
Where the angel spirits meet
In Elysian bow'rs of love?
Or does earth still hold a part,
Claim one soft regret or tear;
Love keep ward above the heart,
Yet find no bright Eden here?
Ah! in sleep how oft our wing
Droops before some idol's shrine;
Like the moth, we flutter—cling—
Our worship—altar—not divine.
Oft we start from darker dreams
With a shriek of fell despair—
There a lurid blackness gleams,
And the night-wind's groan is there.
Death appals our sick'ning sight
As he flits across the scene,
While a pale sepulchral light
Dimly marks where he has been.
There! oh! there do moans of woe,
There do fears and horrors rise;
Dark as Acheron below
Are those visions to our eyes.
Shade beloved, I turn to thee,
Thine the sigh and thine the tear;
Earth has only dreams for me—
Cease they in the silent bier?