Everything we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
Everything we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
For the moon never beams, without giving me dreams, of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes, of the beautiful Annabel Lee
what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted. Ah what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past That holy dream- that holy dream, While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding. What though that light, thro' storm and night, So trembled from afar- What could there be more purely bright In Truth's day-star.
That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie-
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
My young life were a lasting dream!
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.
It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.
So when in tears
The love of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the heart whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,
The rare and radiant flowers of song!
Dreams are the eraser dust I blow off my page. They fade into the emptiness, another dark gray day. Dreams are only memories of the plans I had back then. Dreams are eraser dust and now I use a pen.
I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories