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63 notWitHStAndinG At times i reach for Schopenhauer,28 from the bookcase on the wall. our earthly life he used to call a mournful prison tower. Even were he right, i would not lose, for in the prison’s solitude i’d pluck my soul’s strings to induce, like dalibor,29 a happy mood. AutuMn Mood The air is stale, as in a room where one lies dying, death already waiting at the door. upon damp roofs a shimmer faintly lies, as dying candles that in grief implore. With morbid rattle rain is draining through the gutters, languid winds are sweeping over fallen leaves, while, frightened like a flock of fleeing snipes, traverse the tiny clouds those leaden skies in winter’s eves. ...

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