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For a young man, sleep is a sure solvent of distress.
There whirls not for him in the night any so hideous
phantasmagoria as will not become,
in the clarity of the next morning,
a spruce procession for him to lead.
Brief the vague horror of his awakening; memory sweeps
back to him, and he sees nothing dreadful after all.
'Why not indeed?' his answer ~ Max Beerbohm