even then you must have the sun for your friend. 64 Once more must ye plunge in the throng—In the throng ye grow hard and smooth. Solitude withers And lastly destroys.— 65 When on the hermit comes the great fear; When he runs and runs And knows not whither; When the storms roar behind And the lightning bears witness against him, And his cavern breeds spectres And fills him with dread. 67 Throw thy pain in the depths, Man, forget! Man, forget! Divine is the art of forgetting!
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EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY
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