It depends upon the mood.
Some dreams like these, in poetry or in sleep, arouse individual states
of consciousness altogether different from any of our waking moods, and
not to be recalled by any mere effort of the will. All our being, for
the moment, has a new and strange colouring. We have another kind of
life. I think myself, our life would be much poorer without our dreams;
a thousand rainbow tints and combinations would be gone; music and
poetry would lose many an indescribable exquisiteness and tenderness.
You see I like to take our dreams seriously, as I would even our fun.
For I believe that those new mysterious feelings that come to us in
sleep, if they be only from dreams of a richer grass and a softer wind
than we have known awake, are indications of wells of feeling and
delight which have not yet broken out of their hiding-places in our
souls, and are only to be suspected from these rings of fairy green that
spring up in the high places of our sleep."
"I say, Ralph," interrupted Harry, "just repeat that strangest of
Heine's ballads, that--"
"Oh, no, no; not that one. Mrs. Cathcart would not like it at all."
"Yes, please do," said Adela.
"Pray don't think of me, gentlemen," said the aunt.
"No, I won't," said the curate.
"Then I will," said the doctor, with a glance at Adela, which seemed to
say--"If you want it, you shall have it, whether they like it or not.
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