*To me the poem represents the transitory, ephemeral nature of time and our existence. When we meet a lover it's is like we pick up a handful of sand and as the years go por the sand slowly creeps through our fingers. No matter how hard or how desperately you try, you cannot stop the cascading sand, until you and your lover dividido, dividir and the last grain of sand has fallen. Then all you have left is a memory. And when you and your ex-lover pass on that memory is lost in time: like a dream within a dream. The segundo half seems to be about our own mortality and the nature of our existence. Once the last grain of sand has fallen into the pitiless wave, you're gone forever.200 years into the future no one will remember you. Your life, your hopes and dreams, your accomplishments and triumphs, will be lost in time like a dream within a dream.
*Life is vague, like a mist..our existence is fleeting. Whether brief or longlived, nevertheless, it remains to be just a few grains of the golden sand, everyday slipping through our grasp..before we know it..it is almost/ or is over..and all our pertinent and pressing important achivements, hopes and dreams and aspirations (whether you are a great person, politician, a movie estrela or a nobody) during our lifetime is now nothing mais than a memory, a myth or legend, like a dream with a dream, soon it is pffft finito, gone done, forgotten.
*Life is vague, like a mist..our existence is fleeting. Whether brief or longlived, nevertheless, it remains to be just a few grains of the golden sand, everyday slipping through our grasp..before we know it..it is almost/ or is over..and all our pertinent and pressing important achivements, hopes and dreams and aspirations (whether you are a great person, politician, a movie estrela or a nobody) during our lifetime is now nothing mais than a memory, a myth or legend, like a dream with a dream, soon it is pffft finito, gone done, forgotten.
when i first read mr.edgar allan poe's work and the stories that he wrote there was a sense of darkness and fear inside the horror stories on which he wrote,
and with his own personality on which he wrote them the reader could see and even feel a sense of remorse as he wrote with such anger and passion as what is protrayed inside the writings on which he suffered a great deal at in his private life.
there was a darkness that no-one could understand until you read his work then you could come to terms on why he wrote and felt the way that he did,
leitura his work for me is away to feel close to the man behind the horror stories and to read his background is so hard for me to come to terms with
on my own as being a new fã of his work.
and with his own personality on which he wrote them the reader could see and even feel a sense of remorse as he wrote with such anger and passion as what is protrayed inside the writings on which he suffered a great deal at in his private life.
there was a darkness that no-one could understand until you read his work then you could come to terms on why he wrote and felt the way that he did,
leitura his work for me is away to feel close to the man behind the horror stories and to read his background is so hard for me to come to terms with
on my own as being a new fã of his work.
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream por day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be mais purely bright
In Truth's day-star?
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream por day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be mais purely bright
In Truth's day-star?
'Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold- too cold for me-
There pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And mais I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold- too cold for me-
There pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And mais I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.