A trickling stream, from high rocke tumbling downe,
And ever dringling rain upon the loft,
Mix’d with a murmuring winde, much like the soune
Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoune.”
SUBLIMITY AND IMPERFECTION OF DREAMING.
“We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded by a sleep.”
Tempest.
Ev. In the transition to and from the repose of sleep, the mind is sinking into oblivion, and thought is fading, and the senses and sensation are overshadowed in their regress to insensibility: even instinct is well nigh a blank. This is the state of slumber. Then, I believe, and only then, are we ever wandering in the ideal labyrinth of DREAMS.