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Are shadows of our dreams—no more;
Heaven is a dream of yearning born,
And hell the dream of the forlorn;
Angels are born from sunny skies,
Devils from night and storm arise;
A vast phantasmagoric birth
Is all our wondrous heaven and earth;
Space, Time, the Universe, are naught
But shadows of that central Thought,
Which mortals ne'er may comprehend,
Whence issues all, where all doth end:
O'er all is phantasy supreme,
What most seems real is most a dream!
Heaven is a dream of yearning born,
And hell the dream of the forlorn;
Angels are born from sunny skies,
Devils from night and storm arise;
A vast phantasmagoric birth
Is all our wondrous heaven and earth;
Space, Time, the Universe, are naught
But shadows of that central Thought,
Which mortals ne'er may comprehend,
Whence issues all, where all doth end:
O'er all is phantasy supreme,
What most seems real is most a dream!
The visions that we dream to-day
That seem such newness to display,
Were dreamed in dim and long-past ages
By patriarchs, poets, lovers, sages;
All that we feel and all we know
Were felt and known long, long ago;
We think no thought, no passions feel
Save such as nature did reveal
To our first father, when this earth
From fiery star-dust sprang to birth.
We dream of progress gained by stages
Successive through successive ages.
But like a squirrel in a cage
Never advance a single stage,
Or like a horse to mill-wheel bound
For ever travel round and round;
Condemned to think thoughts thought before,
And wearily to travel o'er
The barren realm of make-believe,
And knowingly ourselves deceive
That seem such newness to display,
Were dreamed in dim and long-past ages
By patriarchs, poets, lovers, sages;
All that we feel and all we know
Were felt and known long, long ago;
We think no thought, no passions feel
Save such as nature did reveal
To our first father, when this earth
From fiery star-dust sprang to birth.
We dream of progress gained by stages
Successive through successive ages.
But like a squirrel in a cage
Never advance a single stage,
Or like a horse to mill-wheel bound
For ever travel round and round;
Condemned to think thoughts thought before,
And wearily to travel o'er
The barren realm of make-believe,
And knowingly ourselves deceive
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