midday
He is welcome . Tell me , Sir Magician , can thy magic mirror call forth an answer to this dream ? Nay , how strange a thing is Sleep , that wrapping the mind in a web of darkness , straightly compels it to its will ! Whence , then , come those images of fear rising on the horizon of the soul like some untimely moon upon a midday sky ? Who grants them power to stalk so lifelike from Memory 's halls , and , pointing to their wounds , thus confront the Present with the Past ? Are they , then , messengers ? Does the half-death of sleep give them foothold in our brains , and thus upknit the cut thread of human kinship ?