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Sleep.
Death.
Hilda, I meant go to sleep.
Sleep is death.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread.
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:

And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,

And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those which dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch:

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour
They fell and faded...

...and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.

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