Is all our Life, then, but a dream
Seen faintly in the golden gleam
Athwart Time's dark resistless stream? Bowed to the earth with bitter woe
Or laughing at some raree-show
We flutter idly to and fro. Man's little Day in haste we spend,
And, from its merry noontide, send
No glance to meet the silent end.

Sylvie and Bruno (1889)