Die Nebel der Nacht, sie weichen, vom Licht des Tages durchströmt, zu Pan‘s verborgenen Reichen, wenn der Weckruf des Morgens tönt.
Morgen, der grau umfangen, lichtarm zeigst du dich und mild; nebelhaft giert dein Verlangen nach einem herbstlichen Bild.
Schlummerschwer sind alle Augen, wenn sie vom Tiefschlaf erwacht; tragen aus traumhaften Lauben, Schleier, der herbstlichen Pracht.
Stehen an Fenstern und sehen, Blatt für Blatt, wie sie fallen; sehen die Herbstzeit vergehen und das Fallen in Allem.
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