A Dream within a Dream
by Edagar Allan Poe
This kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow --
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a version, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand --
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep -- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them wiht a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
The Moonlight’s Dream
by Robert Penn Warren
Why did I wake at night, all the house at ease?
I could not hear, but knew, what each breath meant
In each room. My father’s long drag to the depth of chest.
My mother’s as silky as rustle of lilies that leant
By the garden pool when night-breeze is merely a whisper.
But loudest of all that of my old grandfather,
Who with years struggled, grumbling, croupy, and slow
But once dreamed forth a yell for blood, at Fort Pillow or Shiloh.
Tonight the house was mouse-still except for some beam
That, whisper or creak, complained of the years it had borne
The weight of reality and the human dream
As the real became more real, and the real more forlorn.
Outside, I wondered why I had come here and where
I would go, and back-looking now, saw the tracks of my bare
Dark footprints set in the moonlit dew like snow,
And thought: I must go where they go, for they l must know where to go.
It was as though they knew their way in a dream
The moonlight was having of all the world that night,
And I took the path it dreamed, which led to the stream
Where the cattle snorted in shadow, and eyes without sight
Stared through the dream that I was, while a whip-o-will
Asserted to moonlight its name, while nameless and still,
I wondered if ever my heart would beat again,
As I wandered the moonlight’s dream, past pleasure of past pain,
Across the sweet-clover whiteness, then up the hill
To the darkness that hung from old maples, and lay down to wonder
If I, being part of the moonlight’s dream, could be real.
For whatever realness I was, it must lie asleep yonder
In the far white house that was part of the moonlight’s dream, too.
Then blankness. At day-streak, in terror, I rose, ran through
The tangle of clover, the corn balks, the creek –- home to bed:
But no breath could I hear, and all seemed still, as still as the dead.
Not dead! Though long years now are, and the creek bull-dozed dry,
And their sorrow and joy, their passion and pain and endeavor,
Have with them gone in whatever reality
They were, or are, by sunlight or moonlight -– whatever.
The highway has slicked the spot the white farmhouse once stood.
At sixty per I am whirled past the spot, my blood
Unwitting of that as the defunct stream,
Or of the ignorant night I strayed at part of the moonlight’s dream.
The Dream
by W. H. Auden
Dear, though the night is gone,
Its dream still haunts today,
That brought us to a room
Cavernous, lofty as
A railway terminus,
And crowded in that gloom
Were beds, and we in one
In a far corner lay.
Our whisper woke no clocks,
We kissed and I was glad
At everything you did,
In different to those
Who sat with hostile eyes
In pairs on every bed,
Arms round each other’s necks,
Inert and vaguely sad.
What hidden worm of guilt
Or what malignant doubt
Am I the victim of,
That you, then , unabashed,
Did what I never wished,
Confessed another love;
And I, submissive, felt
Unwanted and went out.
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