they who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night
edgar allan poe

men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence - whether much that is glorious - whether all that is profound - does not spring from disease of thought

a dream within a dream
i stand amid the roar
of a surf-tormented shore,
and i hold within my hand
grains of the golden sand —-
how few! yet how they creep
through my fingers to the deep
while i weep —- while i weep!
o god! can i not grasp
them with a tighter clasp?
o god! can i not save
one from the pitiless wave?
is all that we see or seem
but a dream within a dream?