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: 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