We sleep, but the loom of life never stops, and the pattern which was weaving when the sun went down is weaving when it comes up in the morning.
God has made sleep to be a sponge by which to rub out fatigue. A man's roots are planted in night as in a soil.
Books are the true metempsychosis,--they are the symbol and presage of immortality. The dead men are scattered, and none shall find them. Behold they are here! they do but sleep.
One should go to sleep as homesick passengers do, saying, "Perhaps in the morning we shall see the shore.
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