Dreams.

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.