Written on the front, 1915

I often go on bitter nights 
To Wotan’s oak in the quiet glade 
With dark powers to weave a union - 
The runic letters the moon makes with its magic spell
And all who are full of impudence during the day 
Are made small by the magic formula! 
They draw shining steel - but instead of going into combat, 
They solidify into stalagmites. 
So the false ones part from the real ones
I reach into a nest of words 
Then give to the good and just
With my formula blessing and prosperity