A system,
wherein the purer
Outlay of his
intuition, all trace and circuit, by
A great
draughtman'sboard'sworth of schematic
Would be held,
Where the
lightframe might shudder slightly
And the thought
consume, at each instant he stir,
Should he
wished to impress
With force upon
the world his will.
Harrow, he held
himself down upon it blindly ;
The ur-world
split ; his eyes
Opened and he
reentered his devotion.
Hot damages! He
rose, head of the clutchymen.
Too great a
portion of wine
Was sanctified by
me le soir, he thought sillily.
He thought : I
have played this role in each
Of four
previous lyrics.
I find myself
adrift on artistry ; this is good will
To waking but no
progress man may name.
I must about my
work,
Should only the
good author grant fairly me to it.
But he would not,
and he found himself perform
The round again
and over and further and on,
That no action
wear upon him
Without the
Kaisergeist address him firmly to it.
Blood lies in
the hands of its
Author : no
unsanctioned motion on the frame.
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