"Hec Dies" by John Lynch Adair
To where life's sunset scene discloses
First of spring flowers and roses,
Of summer next, and winter snows
Further on, knows or thinks he knows
That far this scene beyond is day.
That to behold it, as we may,
It's but little more than a dream,
And of events, this turbid stream—
Beginning, ah where? and ending,
Ah where? and forever wending—
Is not a real scene to-day.
That we'll fall to sleep, as we say,
And, weary, would have it night
While the sun is yet warm and bright;
Will wake from sleep to find
That all we saw and left behind
Was nothing but a dream that day.
Wonder how long we slept that way.
Think we've been dreaming—nothing more—
And to those who had woke before
From sleep, will wish to tell our dreams,
Of the unaccountable scences,
We beheld as we slept that day.
That our loved we'll find, as we pray,
Who had grown weary and had slept,
And in their dreams had laughed and wept
O'er scenes that were so real
That nothing could be ideal
Of what they saw and felt that day.
Believe we were dreaming, some way,
When we thought it was more than sleep—
It was so cold and calm and deep—
In which they lay, and sorrow's tears
We'll think were strange, as were the fears,
That made sad our dreaming that day.
That the gleams from the far away
We sometimes have of better things—
Like strange birds upon helpless wings,
Blown from some isle in tropic climes—
Are memories of other times,
As we'll find when we wake that day.