Immediately, looking round, he sees
or, rather, feels, or thinks, or hears (or smells?)
a slew of histories, and none to please
but all are full of fresh and sundry hells.
'Tis true, he only sees the sitting men
and women, only hears the grumbling room,
but in the theatre of his mind a plen-
itude of people's secret lives in bloom
with nightmares. Every one has lost his way
and every one has memories to patch
together of a former life and day.
Yet never do these scattered mem'ries match
completely what had truly been. And this
they know and, therefore, never will see bliss.
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