When love is not madness it is not love.
In this treacherous world
Nothing is the truth nor a lie.
Everything depends on the color
Of the crystal through which one sees it
one may know how to gain victory, and know not how to use it
Dreams are rough copies of the waking soul
Yet uncorrected of the higher will,
So that men sometimes in their dreams confess
An unsuspected, or forgotten, self;
-Since Dreaming, Madness, Passion, are akin
In missing each that salutory rein
Of reason, and the grinding will of man.
4198