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There is an old heavy, heavy, booming-clock: it boometh by night up to thy cave: When thou hearest this clock strike the hours at midnight, then thinkest thou between one and twelve thereon Thou thinkest thereon, O Zarathustra, I know it of soon leaving me!"
Where on the marshes boometh the bittern, Nicker the Soulless sits with his ghittern; Sits inconsolable, friendless and foeless, Bewailing his destiny, Nicker the Soulless. The Nixie of the Mummel-lake The legend of the nixie of Seebach is one of gloom and tragedy, albeit as charming as most of the Rhine tales.
There boometh the clock-bell, there thrilleth still the heart, there burroweth still the wood-worm, the heart-worm. Ah! Ah! Sweet lyre! Sweet lyre! I love thy tone, thy drunken, ranunculine tone! how long, how far hath come unto me thy tone, from the distance, from the ponds of love! Thou old clock-bell, thou sweet lyre!
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