June Dreams

In her sleep, she dreams
And in her dream, she sleeps.
And in this sleep, she dreams,
She dreams that she is waking,
But in the mirror of her mind
She sees herself still fast asleep.
'Tis but a dream within a dream
In which she opens out her eyes
Feels the world beneath her feet
And shivers with delight.

—okei

Leighton, "Flaming June" (1895)

The above can be considered as a loose translation of the following limerick I wrote as a kid, except in this it's a man who's dreaming in a dream. It was the only poem I ever wrote in a foreign language and also the only poem I wrote that I can remember which is the reason why it's here. One day hopefully I'll unearth where all the other poems I wrote as a child went to, but until then I'll just imagine that they were fantastic.

"homme"=man, "rêve"=dream, "se lever"=wake up, "dans" = inside... you get the gist!

Il y avait un homme qui a rêvé
Qu'il était en train de se lever
Mais il a pensé que c'était
Un rêve qui était
Un rêve dans un rêve qu'il rêvait.
 
—okei (1994)

          Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)     

And finally for a wake-up call!!!
A poem I've loved ever since I discovered it in a book of quotations.

         "Psalm of Life"
    Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
        Life is but an empty dream ! —
    For the soul is dead that slumbers,
        And things are not what they seem.
    Life is real !   Life is earnest!
        And the grave is not its goal ;
    Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
        Was not spoken of the soul.
    Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
        Is our destined end or way ;
    But to act, that each to-morrow
        Find us farther than to-day.
    Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
        And our hearts, though stout and brave,
    Still, like muffled drums, are beating
        Funeral marches to the grave.
    In the world's broad field of battle,
        In the bivouac of Life,
    Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
        Be a hero in the strife !
    Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
        Let the dead Past bury its dead !
    Act,— act in the living Present !
        Heart within, and God o'erhead !
    Lives of great men all remind us
        We can make our lives sublime,
    And, departing, leave behind us
        Footprints on the sands of time ;
    Footprints, that perhaps another,
        Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
    A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
        Seeing, shall take heart again.
    Let us, then, be up and doing,
        With a heart for any fate ;
    Still achieving, still pursuing,
        Learn to labor and to wait.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1838)