.Es scheint das Tor, Porta Westflica,
I'm noch hellen Dämmerschein
Glänzen die westlichen Tannen,
I'm letzten sterbenden Schein des Tags.
Heut spannt sich der Prismabogen,
I'm seichten Regen greift die Hand,
Greift vom Fusse der Weserhöhen,
Bis tief ins Sauerland.
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