"Sad dreams, as when the spirit of our youth
Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth
And innocence, once ours, and leads us back
In mournful mockery over the shining track
Of our young life, and points out every ray
Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way!"

By Moore, I think; perhaps Byron.

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."

Cordial remembrances to your parents and the Reddentin folk.


Schönhausen, February 23, '47.

_My Angel!_--I shall not send this letter on its way tomorrow, it's
true, but I do want to make use of the few unoccupied minutes left me
to satisfy the need I am conscious of every hour, to communicate with
you, and forthwith to compose a "Sunday letter" to you once more.