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Poem	He knocked, and I beheld him at the door-- A vision for the gods to verify. "What battered ancient is this," thought I, "And when, if ever, did we meet before?" But ask him as I might, I got no more For answer than a moaning and a cry: Too late to parley, but in time to die, He staggered, and lay ahapeless on the floor. When had I known him? And what brought him here? Love, warning, malediction, 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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