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and compare with its flute-like and treble quality the breadth, depth, and volume of the German in this inimitable stanza of Goethe's: Ueber alien Gipfeln Ist Ruh, In allen Wipfeln Spürest du Kaum einen Hauch; Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde. Warte nur, balde Ruhest du auch.
Hugh set his teeth. The ice broke in a great piece and tilted heavily against him. It was over one shoulder. "Call," said the other self, sharply, again, "or you will be under the ice." And up to the quiet heaven rose once and again a hoarse, wild cry of human agony and despair. Ueber allen Gipfeln Ist Ruh; In allen Wipfeln Spürest Du Kaum einen Hauch; Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
'Die vogelein schweigen im Walde, he said. The answer came from a clear, authoritative voice. 'Warte nur, balde ruhest du auch. Clearly some kind of password, for sane men don't talk about little birds in that kind of situation. It sounded to me like indifferent poetry. Then followed a conversation in low tones, of which I only caught odd phrases.
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