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.