Upon the dawn, when night doth break its spell,
I ponder oft what visions were but dreams,
And what, perchance, the waking mind doth tell,
In slumber's artful, twisting, shadowed schemes.
Was that bright realm of wonder truly seen,
Or but a phantom of the sleeping mind?
Did moonlit gardens glow with silver sheen,
Or doth reality leave such thoughts behind?
Yet in the morn, with eyes to daylight's truth,
The heart recalls the echoes of the night,
And questions what is false and what is sooth,
In realms where sleep and waking intertwine.
Thus, life's great play, with dreams our minds confound,
Where truth and dreams in equal parts are found.
Offline)
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.