The warm, soft dark of night

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One of the manifold idioms that flowed from the verbose quill of that tedious Austrian plowright Otto Büchstein and buried themselves directly into the inflated bowels of the English literary canon.

From Die Schweizer Heulsuse, which Büchstein is supposed to have penned between episodes of delirium, as he lay dying of dengue fever in filthy sanitorium in old Mandalay:

Triago: My shaking pen prescribes a bitter arc
Yet carveth still these precious extant moments
And so keeps them safe above the noisy din
That so much earnest wordage devours. Yea, I wouldst preserve it yet
Upon the mannish tabernacle
Wherein are etched in faltering runes
The mortal strokes of Sapiens’ accomplishment
Herewith, my paltry contribution:
We are dying, Eritrea: mark it well: And in the warm, soft dark of night

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