The unchecked thought Wanders at will upon enchanted ground, Making no sound In all the corridors The bell sleeps in the belfryfrom its tongue A drowsy murmur floats into the air, Like thistle-down. Slumber is everywhere. The rooks asleep, and, in its dreaming, caws; And silence mopes where nightingales have sung; The sirens lie in grottoes cool and deep, The naiads in the streams. T. B. Aldrich.Invocation to Sleep.
We sleep, but the loom of life never stops; and the pattern which was weaving when the sun went down is weaving when it comes up to-morrow. Henry Ward Beecher.Life Thoughts.