Alice Pleasant's Liddle,
From Through the Looking-Glass,
By Lewis Carroll A boat beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily,
In an evening of July.
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear.
Long has paled that sunny sky,
Echoes fade and memories die,
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me,
Phantom-wise,
Alice,
Moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near,
In a wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die.
Ever drifting down the stream,
Lingering in the golden gleam,
Life,
What is it but a dream?
A Dream Within a Dream,
By Edgar Allan Poe Take this kiss upon the brow,
And,
Imparting from you now,
Thus much let me avow,
You are not wrong who deem That my days have been a dream.
Yet,
If hope has flown away In a night or in a day,
In a vision or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand.
How few!
Yet,
How they creep Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep,
While I weep.
O God,
Can I not grasp them With a tighter clasp?
O God,
Can I not save one From the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?
The Reverie,
By Clinton Joseph Massack Full brims my heart to-night,
Too full it brims with memories Dear of bygone days,
Those days of passion deep When thou wert near.
Those days were long,
Ah,
Long ago,
But rightly burns the lamp of memory still.
Again I kiss thy face,
Dear face,
All damp with gladsome tears.
Again at dusk I sit alone with thee,
And watch the dark of night steal in Far o'er the silver sea.
For now I am an old and life-worn soul,
But still of thee I dream and dream all time.
O,
Come,
I beg,
Again to me,
For then we'll sail the purple sea of dreams To that far land of yesterday.
And there,
Dear heart,
Upon that golden strand we'll live.
And yes,
Again at dusk I'll sit alone with thee,
And watch the dark of night steal in Far o'er the silver sea.
Ex Oblivione,
By H.
P.
Lovecraft When the last days were upon me,
And the ugly trifles of existence Began to drive me to madness,
Like the small drops of water That torturers let fall ceaselessly Upon one spot of their victim's body,
I loved the irradiant refuge of sleep.
In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life,
And wandered through old gardens And enchanted woods.
Once,
When the wind was soft and scented,
I heard the south calling,
And sailed endlessly and languorously Under strange stars.
Once,
When the gentle rain fell,
I glided in a barge down a sunless stream Under the earth,
Till I reached another world Of purple twilight,
Iridescent arbors,
And undying roses.
And once I walked through a golden valley That led to shadowy groves and ruins,
And ended in a mighty wall green with antique vines,
And pierced by a little gate of bronze.
Many times I walked through that valley,
And longer and longer would I pause In the spectral half-light Where the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely,
And the gray ground stretched damply From trunk to trunk,
Sometimes disclosing the mold-stained stones Of buried temples.
And always the goal of my fancies Was the mighty vine-grown wall With the little gate of bronze therein.
After a while,
As the days of waking Became less and less bearable from their grayness and sameness,
I would often drift in opiate peace Through the valley and the shadowy groves,
And wonder how I might seize them For my eternal dwelling-place,
So that I need no more crawl back To a dull world Stripped of interest and new colors.
And as I looked upon the little gate In the mighty wall,
I felt that beyond it lay a dream-country From which,
Once it was entered,
There would be no return.
So each night in sleep I strove to find The hidden latch of the gate In the ivied antique wall,
Though it was exceedingly well hidden,
And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall Was not more lasting merely,
But more lovely and radiant as well.
Then one night in the dream city of Zakarian I found a yellowed papyrus Filled with the thoughts of dream-sages Who dwelt of old in that city,
And who were too wise ever to be born In the waking world.
Therein were written many things Concerning the world of dream,
And among them was lore of a golden valley And a sacred grove with temples,
And a high wall pierced by a little bronze gate.
When I saw this lore I knew that it touched On the scenes I had haunted,
And I therefore read long in the yellowed papyrus.
Some of the dream-sages wrote gorgeously Of the wonders beyond the irrepassable gate,
But others told of horror and disappointment.
I knew not which to believe,
Yet longed more And more to cross forever into the unknown land,
For doubt and secrecy are the lure of lures,
And no new horror can be more terrible Than the daily torture of the commonplace.
So when I learned of the drug which would unlock the gate and drive me through,
I resolved to take it when next I awaked.
Last night I swallowed the drug and floated dreamily into the golden valley and the shadowy groves,
And when I came this time to the antique wall I saw that the small gate of bronze was ajar.
From beyond came a glow that weirdly lit the giant twisted trees and the tops of the buried temples,
And I drifted on songfully,
Expectant of the glories of the land from whence I should never return.
But as the gate swung wider and the sorcery of drug and dream pushed me through,
I knew that all sights and glories were at an end,
For in that new realm was neither land nor sea,
But only the white void of unpeopled and illimitable space.
So happier than I had ever dared hope to be,
I dissolved again into that native infinity of crystal oblivion from which the daemon life had called me for one brief and desolate hour.
A Cradle Song by William Blake Sleep,
Sleep,
Beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night.
Sleep,
Sleep,
In thy sleep little sorrows sit and weep.
Sweet babe,
In thy face soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles.
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.
As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steel,
Over thy cheek and over thy breast,
Where thy little heart doth rest.
O,
The cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful light shall break.
The Dream by Edna St.
Vincent Millay Love,
If I weep it will not matter,
And if you laugh I shall not care.
Foolish am I to think about it,
But it is good to fill you there.
Love,
In my sleep I dreamed of waking.
White and awful the moonlight reached.
Over the floor and somewhere,
Somewhere,
There was a shudder loose,
It screeched.
Swung in the wind and no wind blowing,
I was afraid and turned to you.
Put out my hand to you for comfort,
And you were gone,
Cold,
Cold as dew.
Under my hand the moonlight lay.
Love,
If you laugh I shall not care,
But if I weep it will not matter.
Ah,
It is good to fill you there.
The Dream by Helen Hunt Jackson I dreamed that I was dead and crossed the heavens,
Heavens after heavens,
With burning feet and swift,
And cried,
O God,
Where art thou?
I left one on earth whose burden I would pray thee lift.
I was so dead I wondered at no thing,
Not even that the angels slowly turned their faces,
Speechless as I hurried by.
Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned,
Nor at the first that I could not find God,
Because the heavens stretched endlessly like space.
At last a terror seized my very soul,
I seemed alone in all the crowded place.
Then,
Sudden,
One compassionate cried out,
Though like the rest his face from me he turned,
As I were one no angel might regard.
Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned.
No more in heaven than earth will he find God,
Who does not know his loving mercy swift,
Who waits the moment consummate and ripe,
Each burden from each human soul to lift.
Though I was dead I died again for shame,
Lonely to flee from heaven again I turn,
The ranks of angels looked away from me.
Beneath my feet the golden pavements burned.
