The world rolls round for ever like a mill; It grinds out death and life and good and ill; It has no purpose… — James Thomson

For life is but a dream whose shapes return,

Some frequently, some seldom, some by night

And some by day.

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.

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.