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.