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PHANTASMAGORIA.
25
And I remember nothing more
That I can clearly fix,
Till I was sitting on the floor,
Repeating "Two and three are four,
But three and two are six."
What really passed I never learned,
Nor guessed: I only know
That, when at last my sense returned,
The lamp, neglected, dimly burned—
The fire was getting low—
Through driving mists I seemed to see
A form of sheet and bone—
And found that he was telling me
The whole of his biography
In a familiar tone.
