The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night; for never there Can come the lucid… — James Thomson

For life is but a dream whose shapes return,

Some frequently, some seldom, some by night

And some by day.

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.