This Book is written by Arthur Osborne.

You dreamed you were a postman, say, last night:
And do you ask today if he still is—
The postman-you who never really was
But only seemed to be?
It is so plain to see.

What was he then? Had he a self? A soul?
Or was he just a mask you took? And was
The dream with all the dream-folk he found real
A world no further true
Than in the mind of you?

Why cling in vain to such a phantom self
Within the brief horizons of a dream?
An intuition of eternity?
Right—but whose? The dream’s?
What is, or what just seems?