English poetry

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THE MISANTHROPE

AT first awhile sits he,

With calm, unruffled brow;
His features then I see,
Distorted hideously,

An owl’s they might be now.

What is it, askest thou?
Is’t love, or is’t ennui?

‘Tis both at once, I vow.

1767-9.


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Poem THE MISANTHROPE - Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe