Poet

I have been an 'Official' all my life, without the least turn for it. I never could attain a true official manner, which is highly artificial and handles trifles with ludicrously disproportionate gravity.

If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one: I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me.

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.

I should be proud to have my memory graced, but only if the monument be placed... here, where I endured three hundred hours in line before the implacable iron bars.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.

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