“the dank night is sweeping down from the skyand the setting stars incline our heads to sleep.”

“The repose of sleep refreshes only the body. It rarely sets the soul at rest. The repose of the night does not belong to us. It is not the possession of our being. Sleep opens within us an inn for phantoms. In the morning we must sweep out the shadows.”

“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,Hath had elsewhere its setting,And cometh from afar:Not in entire forgetfulness,And not in utter nakedness,But trailing clouds of glory do we come”

“Precarious, life is. A flying leap. A sweep of hand. A star flung across the night. A lucky catch in this whirling juggling circus act.From Steam Drills, Treadmills, and Shooting Stars”

“Our talk had been serious and sober,But our thoughts they were palsied and sere -For we knew not the month was October,And we marked not the night of the year -(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)We noted not the dim lake of Auber -(Though once we had journeyed down here) -Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

“Home is the place in deepest space Where star etched memories burn,Home is that sigh for a color of skyand a will to return.”