Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made of

Now all the cloudy shapes that float and lie Within this magic globe we call the brain Fold quite away, condense, withdraw, refrain, And show it tenantless—an empty sky. Return, O parting visions, pass not by; Nor leave me vacant still, with strivings vain, Longing to grasp at your dim garment’s train, And be drawn on to sleep’s immunity. I lie and pray for fancies hovering near; Oblivion’s kindly troop, illusions blest; Dim, trailing phantoms in a world too clear; Soft, downy, shadowy forms, my spirit’s nest; The warp and woof of sleep; till, freed from fear, I drift in sweet enchantment back to rest.

Collection: 
English
Thomas Wentworth Higginson

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