Normale Version: Schopenhauer
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Thou, that hast weighed the world and found it nil,
That with the sword of thought hast rent apart
The inmost veil from off its quivering heart,
Mething the measure of its good and ill,

And as the leach that seeks to cure or kill,
Hast, to their eyes who shrink not from the smart
Of Truth's untempered, life-offending dart,
Bared all the workings of the wheels of Will;

The butt of brainless witlings who outright
All that's unflattering to their wit uncouth
And gross dull sense reject, - the mere dismay

Of those who fear to see the face of light,
Still in their hearts thou dwellest, come what may,
Who look for leading to the torch of Truth.