For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day. — James Thomson

The City is of Night; perchance of Death,

But certainly of Night; for never there

Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath

After the dewy dawning's cold grey air.

The world rolls round for ever like a mill;

It grinds out death and life and good and ill;

It has no purpose, heart or mind or will.

And all sad scenes and thoughts and feelings vanish

In that sweet sleep no power can ever banish,

That one best sleep which never wakes again.