In dreams we live a strange and mystic life, —
We know not what is false and what is real:
Truth and untruth meet in perpetual strife,
And all things are ideal.

A something-nothing state of nothingness,
Where facts and fancies whirl in wild confusion;
Where sober life flaunts a fantastic dress
Of mystical illusion;

And yet in dreams we think we move and live,
All things seem actual and ordered duly:
What surety can our waking moments give
That then we live more truely?

I have a fancy that life's fitful gleam,
Where hopes are baffled and where hearts are breaking,
Is nothing but an unsubstantial dream,
And death will be the waking!