Dreams are but glimpses of the power
Deep hidden in the human soul

That, like some enchanted flower,
Withers 'neath reason's stern control.

They come not as invited guests
To while away the tedious hours—

Are they not lights from heaven sent
To teach the soul its wondrous powers?

And best they love to lead us back
O'er scenes to memory doubly dear,

For those we, waking, love the most
In dreams will seem most near.

While reason sleeps the soul, awake,
Lives o'er each precious hour,

And woos us with a gentle strain
Of pathos and of power.

Dreams index to our waking thought
Plans on which the heart is set,

And he who heeds their warning voice
Has in life least to regret.

In waking hours we sow the seed,
In dreams we reap the grain:

Sometimes the harvest all is joy,
Sometimes, alas! 'tis pain.

What marvel then that sleep is sweet,
If dreams bring bliss to view—

Perhaps the afterglow of death
Will prove most dreams are not untrue.