Truly we love not the world, neither the things that are in it.

Across the bounds of sleep our grief follows us.

When we wake in the night we are sitting up in bed weeping bitterly, or find ourself outside in the moonlight, dressed, and walking up and down, and wringing our hands, and we cannot tell how we came there.

So pass two years, as men reckon them.
V.
Then a new time.
Before us there were three courses possible--to go mad, to die, to sleep.
We take the latter course; or nature takes it for us.
All things take rest in sleep; the beasts, birds, the very flowers close their eyes, and the streams are still in winter; all things take rest; then why not the human reason also?
So the questioning devil in us drops asleep, and in that sleep a beautiful dream rises for us.

Though you hear all the dreams of men, you will hardly find a prettier one than ours.