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 The window lightened, and I saw the trees. They moved a little, but I could not move, More than to turn my face the other way; And then, if you must have it so, I slept. We'll call it so—if sleep is your best name For a sort of conscious, frozen catalepsy Wherein a man sees all there is around him As if it were not real, and he were not Alive. You may call it anything you please That made me powerless to move hand or foot, Or to make any other living motion Than after a long horror, without hope, To turn my face again the other way. Some force that was not mine opened my eyes, And, as I knew it must be,—it was there."