Love the poet said is womans whole existence.

Hail happiness then and after happiness hail not those dreams which bloat the sharp image as spotted mirrors do the face in a country-inn parlour dreams which splinter the whole and tear us asunder and wound us and split us apart in the night when we would sleep but sleep sleep so deep that all shapes are ground to dust of infinite softness water of dimness inscrutable and there folded shrouded like a mummy like a moth prone let us lie on the sand at the bottom of sleep.

He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.

By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. Tis the waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.