Life is perhaps most wisely regarded as a bad dream between two awakenings, and every day is a life in miniature...

Could I say what I think, could I express
My every hidden and too-silent thought,
And bring my feelings, in perfection wrought,
To one unforced point of living stress.
                               
Could I breathe forth my soul, could I confess
The immost secrets to my nature brought;
I might be great, yet none to me hath taught
A language well to figure my distress

Yet day and night to me new whispers bring,
And day and night from me old whispers take...
Oh for a word, one phrase in which to fling.

All that I think and feel, and so to wake
The world; but I am dumb and cannot sing,
Dumb as You clouds before the thunders break.