The warm, soft dark of night: Difference between revisions

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To keep them safe from, and above, the noisy din <br>
To keep them safe from, and above, the noisy din <br>
That hungrily devours much earnest wordage.<br>
That hungrily devours much earnest wordage.<br>
Yea, I wouldst preserve it, yet <br>
Yea, I wouldst preserve’t, yet <br>
Upon the mannish tabernacle <br>
Upon the mannish tabernacle <br>
Wherein are etched, in faltering runes, <br>
Wherein are etched, in faltering runes, <br>
The mortal strokes of Sapiens’ accomplishment.<br>
The mortal strokes of our collect accomplishment.<br>
Herewith, my paltry contribution. Mark it well:<br>
Herewith, my paltry contribution. Mark it well, [[Herculio]]:<br>
We are dying, Equatorial Guinea, dying —<br>
For I am dying, Equatorial Guinea, dying —<br>
And in [[the warm, soft dark of night]] <br>
And in [[the warm, soft dark of night]] <br>
Wherein our private phantoms scratch and scale <br>
Wherein our private phantoms scratch and scale <br>
And assault our crumbling mental battlements<br>
And assault our crumbling mental battlements<br>
We dream of molten eternity cast upon our mould<br>
But scarcely canst we credit it.<br>
So be it —<br>
:''Dies''
''EXEUNT''


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{{C|Otto Büchstein}}
{{C|Otto Büchstein}}

Revision as of 23:08, 15 August 2024

The complete works of Otto Büchstein
Devil is in the Detail but God is in the Gaps, (von Sachsen-Rampton, 1875)
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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: Though my shaking pen prescribes a bitter arc
Yet carveth it these precious extant moments
To keep them safe from, and above, the noisy din
That hungrily devours much earnest wordage.
Yea, I wouldst preserve’t, yet
Upon the mannish tabernacle
Wherein are etched, in faltering runes,
The mortal strokes of our collect accomplishment.
Herewith, my paltry contribution. Mark it well, Herculio:
For I am dying, Equatorial Guinea, dying —
And in the warm, soft dark of night
Wherein our private phantoms scratch and scale
And assault our crumbling mental battlements
We dream of molten eternity cast upon our mould
But scarcely canst we credit it.
So be it —

Dies

EXEUNT