Children of the night, of indigestion breed
A world of the dead in the hues of life
Never a ship sails out of the bay
But carries my heart as a stowaway
So I I have nothing? Ah, you’re wrong.
Why, I have all my dreams-
Priceless are my riches
When my brain with fancy teems
Dreams full oft are found of real events
The farms and shadows
We have in dreams no true perception of time-

A strange property of mind!-
For if such be also its property
When entered into the eternal disembodied state,
Time will appear to us eternity!-
The relations of space as well as time are also annihilated,
Infinite space is traversed more swiftly than by real thought
We are some what more than ourselves in our sleeps,
And the slumber of the body seems to be
But the liberty of reason; and our waking conception

Do not match the fancies of our sleeps.
As dreams are the fancies of those that sleep,
So fancies are but the dreams of those awake
Dreaming is an act of pure imagination,
Attesting in all men a creative power,
Which, if it were available in waking,
Would make every man a Dante or Shakespeare
Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls
Nothing so much convinces me of the boundlessness
Of the human mind as its operations in dreaming