Lewis Carroll Dream Quotations

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

Life, what is it but a dream?

In a Wonderland they lie, Dreaming as the days go by, Dreaming as the summers die: Ever drifting down the stream- Lingering in the golden gleam- Life, what is it but a dream?

He was part of my dream, of course -- but then I was part of his dream, too.

Child of the pure unclouded brow And dreaming eyes of wonder! Though time be fleet, and I and thou Are half a life asunder, Thy loving smile will surely hail The love-gift of a fairy-tale.

Child of the pure, unclouded brow and dreaming eyes of wonder.

Is all our Life, then but a dream Seen faintly in the golden gleam Athwart Time's dark resistless stream?

May we not then sometimes define insanity as an inability to distinguish which is the waking and which the sleeping life? We often dream without the least suspicion of unreality: 'Sleep hath its own world', and it is often as lifelike as the other.

Is Life itself a dream, I wonder?

In a wonderland they lie, dreaming as the days go by

And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?

Anon, to sudden silence won, In fancy they pursue The dream-child moving through the land Of wonders wild and new, In friendly chat with bird or beast - And half believe it true.

Well, it’s no use your talking about waking him, said Tweedledum, when you’re only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you’re not real. I am real! said Alice, and began to cry. You won’t make yourself a bit realer by crying, Tweedledee remarked: there’s nothing to cry about. If I wasn’t real, Alice said– half laughing through her tears, it all seemed so ridiculous– I shouldn’t be able to cry. I hope you don’t think those are real tears? Tweedledee interrupted in a tone of great contempt.

You would have to be half mad to dream me up.

Alice! A childish story take, And with a gentile hand Lay it where Childhood dreams are twined In memory's mystic band, Like pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers Pluck'd in a far off land.