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The title of this work is no doubt an outlet for a feeling of inferiority for the quality of the verse that composes it. The title is well chosen. The work is clearly neither poetry nor prose. What, then, is it? A few samples will suffice:
Impressions on our brain
From childhood do remain,
And when they are recalled
Memory it is called
Whether the length of retention
Is determined by attention,
Or by repeating the response
Of an impression received once.
It does not make much difference to us whether
It's quality or substance that we call matter,
It might be solid or as mist,
But we feel that it does exist.
Ravings in Delirium and Other Verse. JAMA. 1929;93(11):871. doi:10.1001/jama.1929.02710110057042
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