As after death but part of us lies there,
Passive and still in some flower-scented room,
While the freed soul into far lands and fair,
Goes roving out beyond the grief and gloom,
So in our sleep, that counterfeit of death,
While quietly our bodies lie and still,
Our spirits may, with every slow-drawn breath,
Be speeding to whatever lands they will.
There each brief hour with ecstasy is filled;
Old friends we long to see come home again,
By strange adventures are our pulses thrilled,
Forgotten quite are all our griefs and pain.
But with the morning light these pale dreams flee,
Only the death-freed soul is really free.