Along from these days that pass,
Here great the sighs hear amass,
Fares well and never great shone,
The steady walk thus made alone,
Slowly and silently thus motions,
Sooner glows and looks back, thus;
Now, brings himself towards none,
Beheld the sun, then his life after,
For it was I who made him so,
For was it not I who made him leap,
And that makes all the notions deep,
But asks where he once was, but never;
Lost as he was and slowly diminishes,
Thus shrieks at himself what lightly,
Then suddenly kneels before nature
Hence he looks up at the moon, and weeps.

Mysterious, Nocturnal, Poetry, Works
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