ALMA MATER
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e knocked, and I beheld him at the door--A vision for the gods to verify.“What battered ancientry is this,” thought I,“And when, if ever, did we meet before?”But ask him as I might, I got no moreFor answer than a moaning and a cry:Too late to parley, but in time to die,He staggered, and lay shapeless on the floor.When had I known him? And what brought him here?Love, warning, malediction, hunger, fear?Surely I never thwarted such as he?--Again, what soiled obscurity was this:Out of what scum, and up from what abyss,Had they arrived--these rags of memory?
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