Formless and vague, that flit upon the wings
Of wild Imagination round thy couch,
When Slumber seals thine eyes, is clothed with such
An unreality as Human Life,
Cherished and clung to as it is; the fear,
The thrilling hope, the agonizing strife,
Are not more unavailing there than here.
To him who reads what Nature would pourtray,
What speaks the night? A comment on the day.
Day dies—Night lives—and, as in dumb derision,