To find that soulful stirring in the midnight mists, where phantoms linger in the gloom! That wispy trail of fog that hangs beneath the silver moon - that must be the sweeter sleep than any!

There, where delphiniums bloom blue in the sludge and mud, after the rains had come and gone, where dewdrops cling to petals and the moths weep glitter from their wings and the trees drip green from their leaves and limbs hang heavy in that slumber - oh how sweet that rest must be.

To think, perchance, that the winds will whisper the lullaby of the ancient earths, that which strokes the primal brain into the comforts of the grave, with a pillow of moss and dirt to rest the weary head and a blanket of grass and water washed over the warm body - such a peaceful sleep, such a darling dream of the nighttime and all while the forest chirrups and the rocks edge slowly - quickly - by the force of passing specters.

A sweeter sleep than any that must be.