The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

Last night, I went to bed early and dreamed long, and in that dream, saw my uncle, dead now for thirteen years. He was in his youth, because the dream must have been of my youth, last night before bed, I must have been thinking of time machines, of the past that was, of all my life that is lost and gone — new lovers, maybe, do that, the resistance always to the new driving out the old — 

and in the dream, saw my uncle, walking past me, healthy, young, in his fullness, happy, smiling, and I went to stop him, to put a hand on his shoulder, as I realized it was him, to tell myself to say something to him — 

And I do not know if I did, but I think not, I think I remained silent. And he remained silent too. The dead do not speak, not even in dreams. 

I remember that from the one other dream I remember of him, which came the year after, where he stood, silent, but did not speak. 

Or the ghost-battle of Elsewhere, where the two ghosts came to me in many different forms, but never, never spoke. 

The dream was time travel, a memory. Did it strengthen me, to see him, tears in the rain, time lost, passed, gone? Or is it Margaret I mourn for, even now? 

Not all who wander are lost.