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A Sleep and a Forgetting

There are times when men and women partly awake, and realize that they are sleeping. Some sleep more soundly than others, and seldom, if ever, "move in their night of sleep," but dream on in the darkness, and their dreaming is painful and the dream unreal, but the sleeper knows it not.

Other sleepers there are who sleep so lightly that now and then the light from another world striking upon their closed lids; and the sounds of another life breaking upon their heavy ears makes them start up and listen and open their eyes. But the light is too bright for eyes so long accustomed to the darkness, and their ears are not attuned to the harmonies they hear, and so to them it is but a jarring discord, a confused memory of something, they know not what, but imagine it is some long forgotten dream, and so, they sleep again—and dream! and forget!

But here and there one has awakened, and he knows that he has slept—and dreamed,—and he recognizes his dream,—and he knows that it was but a dream. Now his eyes are open, and he sees,—his ears are unstopped, and he hears and understands. He will never sleep again! He smiles, because he knows that even as he has at last awakened from his long sleep, and from the dreams and phantasies of the unreal, so those other sleepers will one day start from their slumbers,—they will open their eyes,—they too will never sleep again!

"And thou shalt awake as from a dream. Thou shalt be like the perfume arising from the flower in which it has been so long enclosed. And thou will float above the opened flower. And thou wilt say, "There is time before me in Eternity."

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
And there reigns love, and all love’s loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol’n from my eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov’d, that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
That due of many now is thine alone;
Their images I lov’d I viewed in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.
What matters where the great God flings
Down on earth’s floor thy thinking clay.
If thou canst rise and live today
The life of emperors and kings!

So take thy soul and keep it sane;
And, treading firm the green earth-sod.
Look upward from that place to God
That He shall see thy soul again.
—Charles Weekes

For there is no man but he must, of necessity, influence, to a more or less degree, the conduct of those he meets, whether he will or no...
Thus to some extent we become responsible for the actions of our neighbors, even after we are dead, for Influence is Immortal."
—Jeffery Farnol

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Lily L. Allen

  • Born on December 30th, 1867 at Burrishoole, Eire
  • Wife of author James Allen
  • Wrote many books of her own

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