  A dream is the ghost of a fond delight, An echo of former smiles or tears, Wafted to us on the wings of night From the silent bourne of the vanished years. A dream is a perished joy, restored From the mystical regions beyond our ken, Which we fain would press as a thing adored, To our breasts, ere it fades and is lost again. A dream is a buried hope exhumed, 'Tis an iridescent thing of air, Which mocks at the spirit, by fate entombed In the catacombs of a mute despair. A dream is a reflex view of life, A blending of fancy with solemn truth, A retrospection of mundane strife, Old age re-living the scenes of youth. Our dreams are but mirrors for our desires; The proud ambition, the lofty aim Achieved in our sleep, but the night expires And the dull existence plods on the same. A dream is a feeble ray of light, A rift in the shadows through which we grope, An evidence that eternal night Can never extinguish the star of hope. |
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