No More Learning

Courage, however, and adventure, and
delight in the uncertain, in the unattempted--COURAGE seemeth to me the
entire primitive history of man.

The wildest and most courageous animals hath he envied and robbed of all
their virtues: thus only did he become--man.

THIS courage, at last become subtle, spiritual and intellectual, this
human courage, with eagle's pinions and serpent's wisdom: THIS, it
seemeth to me, is called at present--"

"ZARATHUSTRA! " cried all of them there assembled, as if with one voice,
and burst out at the same time into a great laughter; there arose,
however, from them as it were a heavy cloud. Even the magician laughed,
and said wisely: "Well! It is gone, mine evil spirit!

And did I not myself warn you against it when I said that it was a
deceiver, a lying and deceiving spirit?

Especially when it showeth itself naked. But what can _I_ do with regard
to its tricks! Have _I_ created it and the world?

Well! Let us be good again, and of good cheer! And although Zarathustra
looketh with evil eye--just see him! he disliketh me--:

--Ere night cometh will he again learn to love and laud me; he cannot
live long without committing such follies.

HE--loveth his enemies: this art knoweth he better than any one I have
seen. But he taketh revenge for it--on his friends! "

Thus spake the old magician, and the higher men applauded him; so that
Zarathustra went round, and mischievously and lovingly shook hands with
his friends,--like one who hath to make amends and apologise to every
one for something. When however he had thereby come to the door of his
cave, lo, then had he again a longing for the good air outside, and for
his animals,--and wished to steal out.




LXXVI. AMONG DAUGHTERS OF THE DESERT.

1.

"Go not away! " said then the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra's
shadow, "abide with us--otherwise the old gloomy affliction might again
fall upon us.

Now hath that old magician given us of his worst for our good, and
lo! the good, pious pope there hath tears in his eyes, and hath quite
embarked again upon the sea of melancholy.

Those kings may well put on a good air before us still: for that have
THEY learned best of us all at present! Had they however no one to see
them, I wager that with them also the bad game would again commence,--

--The bad game of drifting clouds, of damp melancholy, of curtained
heavens, of stolen suns, of howling autumn-winds,

--The bad game of our howling and crying for help! Abide with us, O
Zarathustra! Here there is much concealed misery that wisheth to speak,
much evening, much cloud, much damp air!

Thou hast nourished us with strong food for men, and powerful proverbs:
do not let the weakly, womanly spirits attack us anew at dessert!

Thou alone makest the air around thee strong and clear! Did I ever find
anywhere on earth such good air as with thee in thy cave?

Many lands have I seen, my nose hath learned to test and estimate many
kinds of air: but with thee do my nostrils taste their greatest delight!

Unless it be,--unless it be--, do forgive an old recollection! Forgive
me an old after-dinner song, which I once composed amongst daughters of
the desert:--

For with them was there equally good, clear, Oriental air; there was I
furthest from cloudy, damp, melancholy Old-Europe!

Then did I love such Oriental maidens and other blue kingdoms of heaven,
over which hang no clouds and no thoughts.

Ye would not believe how charmingly they sat there, when they did
not dance, profound, but without thoughts, like little secrets, like
beribboned riddles, like dessert-nuts--

Many-hued and foreign, forsooth! but without clouds: riddles which
can be guessed: to please such maidens I then composed an after-dinner
psalm. "

Thus spake the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra's shadow; and
before any one answered him, he had seized the harp of the old magician,
crossed his legs, and looked calmly and sagely around him:--with his
nostrils, however, he inhaled the air slowly and questioningly, like one
who in new countries tasteth new foreign air. Afterward he began to sing
with a kind of roaring.

2.

THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE!

--Ha!
Solemnly!
In effect solemnly!
A worthy beginning!
Afric manner, solemnly!
Of a lion worthy,
Or perhaps of a virtuous howl-monkey--
--But it's naught to you,
Ye friendly damsels dearly loved,
At whose own feet to me,
The first occasion,
To a European under palm-trees,
A seat is now granted. Selah.

Wonderful, truly!
Here do I sit now,
The desert nigh, and yet I am
So far still from the desert,
Even in naught yet deserted:
That is, I'm swallowed down
By this the smallest oasis--:
--It opened up just yawning,
Its loveliest mouth agape,
Most sweet-odoured of all mouthlets:
Then fell I right in,
Right down, right through--in 'mong you,
Ye friendly damsels dearly loved! Selah.

Hail! hail! to that whale, fishlike,
If it thus for its guest's convenience
Made things nice! --(ye well know,
Surely, my learned allusion? )
Hail to its belly,
If it had e'er
A such loveliest oasis-belly
As this is: though however I doubt about it,
--With this come I out of Old-Europe,
That doubt'th more eagerly than doth any
Elderly married woman.
May the Lord improve it!
Amen!

Here do I sit now,
In this the smallest oasis,
Like a date indeed,
Brown, quite sweet, gold-suppurating,
For rounded mouth of maiden longing,
But yet still more for youthful, maidlike,
Ice-cold and snow-white and incisory
Front teeth: and for such assuredly,
Pine the hearts all of ardent date-fruits. Selah.

To the there-named south-fruits now,
Similar, all-too-similar,
Do I lie here; by little
Flying insects
Round-sniffled and round-played,
And also by yet littler,
Foolisher, and peccabler
Wishes and phantasies,--
Environed by you,
Ye silent, presentientest
Maiden-kittens,
Dudu and Suleika,
--ROUNDSPHINXED, that into one word
I may crowd much feeling:
(Forgive me, O God,
All such speech-sinning! )
--Sit I here the best of air sniffling,
Paradisal air, truly,
Bright and buoyant air, golden-mottled,
As goodly air as ever
From lunar orb downfell--
Be it by hazard,
Or supervened it by arrogancy?
As the ancient poets relate it.
But doubter, I'm now calling it
In question: with this do I come indeed
Out of Europe,
That doubt'th more eagerly than doth any
Elderly married woman.
May the Lord improve it!
Amen.

This the finest air drinking,
With nostrils out-swelled like goblets,
Lacking future, lacking remembrances
Thus do I sit here, ye
Friendly damsels dearly loved,
And look at the palm-tree there,
How it, to a dance-girl, like,
Doth bow and bend and on its haunches bob,
--One doth it too, when one view'th it long! --
To a dance-girl like, who as it seem'th to me,
Too long, and dangerously persistent,
Always, always, just on SINGLE leg hath stood?
--Then forgot she thereby, as it seem'th to me,
The OTHER leg?
For vainly I, at least,
Did search for the amissing
Fellow-jewel
--Namely, the other leg--
In the sanctified precincts,
Nigh her very dearest, very tenderest,
Flapping and fluttering and flickering skirting.
Yea, if ye should, ye beauteous friendly ones,
Quite take my word:
She hath, alas! LOST it!
Hu! Hu! Hu! Hu! Hu!
It is away!
For ever away!
The other leg!
Oh, pity for that loveliest other leg!
Where may it now tarry, all-forsaken weeping?
The lonesomest leg?
In fear perhaps before a
Furious, yellow, blond and curled
Leonine monster? Or perhaps even
Gnawed away, nibbled badly--
Most wretched, woeful! woeful! nibbled badly! Selah.

Oh, weep ye not,
Gentle spirits!
Weep ye not, ye
Date-fruit spirits! Milk-bosoms!
Ye sweetwood-heart
Purselets!
Weep ye no more,
Pallid Dudu!
Be a man, Suleika! Bold! Bold!
--Or else should there perhaps
Something strengthening, heart-strengthening,
Here most proper be?
Some inspiring text?
Some solemn exhortation? --
Ha! Up now! honour!
Moral honour! European honour!
Blow again, continue,
Bellows-box of virtue!
Ha!
Once more thy roaring,
Thy moral roaring!
As a virtuous lion
Nigh the daughters of deserts roaring!
--For virtue's out-howl,
Ye very dearest maidens,
Is more than every
European fervour, European hot-hunger!
And now do I stand here,
As European,
I can't be different, God's help to me!
Amen!

THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE!




LXXVII. THE AWAKENING.

1.

After the song of the wanderer and shadow, the cave became all at once
full of noise and laughter: and since the assembled guests all spake
simultaneously, and even the ass, encouraged thereby, no longer
remained silent, a little aversion and scorn for his visitors came over
Zarathustra, although he rejoiced at their gladness. For it seemed to
him a sign of convalescence. So he slipped out into the open air and
spake to his animals.

"Whither hath their distress now gone? " said he, and already did he
himself feel relieved of his petty disgust--"with me, it seemeth that
they have unlearned their cries of distress!

--Though, alas! not yet their crying. " And Zarathustra stopped his
ears, for just then did the YE-A of the ass mix strangely with the noisy
jubilation of those higher men.

"They are merry," he began again, "and who knoweth? perhaps at their
host's expense; and if they have learned of me to laugh, still it is not
MY laughter they have learned.

But what matter about that! They are old people: they recover in their
own way, they laugh in their own way; mine ears have already endured
worse and have not become peevish.

This day is a victory: he already yieldeth, he fleeth, THE SPIRIT OF
GRAVITY, mine old arch-enemy! How well this day is about to end, which
began so badly and gloomily!

And it is ABOUT TO end. Already cometh the evening: over the sea
rideth it hither, the good rider! How it bobbeth, the blessed one, the
home-returning one, in its purple saddles!

The sky gazeth brightly thereon, the world lieth deep. Oh, all ye
strange ones who have come to me, it is already worth while to have
lived with me! "

Thus spake Zarathustra. And again came the cries and laughter of the
higher men out of the cave: then began he anew:

"They bite at it, my bait taketh, there departeth also from them their
enemy, the spirit of gravity. Now do they learn to laugh at themselves:
do I hear rightly?

My virile food taketh effect, my strong and savoury sayings: and verily,
I did not nourish them with flatulent vegetables! But with warrior-food,
with conqueror-food: new desires did I awaken.

New hopes are in their arms and legs, their hearts expand. They find new
words, soon will their spirits breathe wantonness.

Such food may sure enough not be proper for children, nor even for
longing girls old and young. One persuadeth their bowels otherwise; I am
not their physician and teacher.

The DISGUST departeth from these higher men; well! that is my victory.
In my domain they become assured; all stupid shame fleeth away; they
empty themselves.

They empty their hearts, good times return unto them, they keep holiday
and ruminate,--they become THANKFUL.

THAT do I take as the best sign: they become thankful. Not long will it
be ere they devise festivals, and put up memorials to their old joys.

They are CONVALESCENTS! " Thus spake Zarathustra joyfully to his heart
and gazed outward; his animals, however, pressed up to him, and honoured
his happiness and his silence.

2.

All on a sudden however, Zarathustra's ear was frightened: for the cave
which had hitherto been full of noise and laughter, became all at once
still as death;--his nose, however, smelt a sweet-scented vapour and
incense-odour, as if from burning pine-cones.

"What happeneth? What are they about? " he asked himself, and stole up
to the entrance, that he might be able unobserved to see his guests.
But wonder upon wonder! what was he then obliged to behold with his own
eyes!

"They have all of them become PIOUS again, they PRAY, they are
mad! "--said he, and was astonished beyond measure. And forsooth! all
these higher men, the two kings, the pope out of service, the evil
magician, the voluntary beggar, the wanderer and shadow, the old
soothsayer, the spiritually conscientious one, and the ugliest man--they
all lay on their knees like children and credulous old women, and
worshipped the ass. And just then began the ugliest man to gurgle and
snort, as if something unutterable in him tried to find expression;
when, however, he had actually found words, behold! it was a pious,
strange litany in praise of the adored and censed ass. And the litany
sounded thus:

Amen! And glory and honour and wisdom and thanks and praise and strength
be to our God, from everlasting to everlasting!

--The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.

He carrieth our burdens, he hath taken upon him the form of a servant,
he is patient of heart and never saith Nay; and he who loveth his God
chastiseth him.

--The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.

He speaketh not: except that he ever saith Yea to the world which
he created: thus doth he extol his world. It is his artfulness that
speaketh not: thus is he rarely found wrong.

--The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.

Uncomely goeth he through the world. Grey is the favourite colour in
which he wrappeth his virtue. Hath he spirit, then doth he conceal it;
every one, however, believeth in his long ears.

--The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.

What hidden wisdom it is to wear long ears, and only to say Yea and
never Nay! Hath he not created the world in his own image, namely, as
stupid as possible?

--The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.

Thou goest straight and crooked ways; it concerneth thee little what
seemeth straight or crooked unto us men. Beyond good and evil is thy
domain. It is thine innocence not to know what innocence is.

--The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.

Lo! how thou spurnest none from thee, neither beggars nor kings. Thou
sufferest little children to come unto thee, and when the bad boys decoy
thee, then sayest thou simply, YE-A.

--The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.

Thou lovest she-asses and fresh figs, thou art no food-despiser. A
thistle tickleth thy heart when thou chancest to be hungry. There is the
wisdom of a God therein.

--The ass, however, here brayed YE-A.




LXXVIII. THE ASS-FESTIVAL.

1.

At this place in the litany, however, Zarathustra could no longer
control himself; he himself cried out YE-A, louder even than the ass,
and sprang into the midst of his maddened guests. "Whatever are you
about, ye grown-up children? " he exclaimed, pulling up the praying ones
from the ground. "Alas, if any one else, except Zarathustra, had seen
you:

Every one would think you the worst blasphemers, or the very foolishest
old women, with your new belief!

And thou thyself, thou old pope, how is it in accordance with thee, to
adore an ass in such a manner as God?
"--

"O Zarathustra," answered the pope, "forgive me, but in divine matters
I am more enlightened even than thou. And it is right that it should be
so.

Better to adore God so, in this form, than in no form at all! Think over
this saying, mine exalted friend: thou wilt readily divine that in such
a saying there is wisdom.

He who said 'God is a Spirit'--made the greatest stride and slide
hitherto made on earth towards unbelief: such a dictum is not easily
amended again on earth!

Mine old heart leapeth and boundeth because there is still something
to adore on earth. Forgive it, O Zarathustra, to an old, pious
pontiff-heart! --"

--"And thou," said Zarathustra to the wanderer and shadow, "thou callest
and thinkest thyself a free spirit? And thou here practisest such
idolatry and hierolatry?

Worse verily, doest thou here than with thy bad brown girls, thou bad,
new believer! "

"It is sad enough," answered the wanderer and shadow, "thou art right:
but how can I help it! The old God liveth again, O Zarathustra, thou
mayst say what thou wilt.

The ugliest man is to blame for it all: he hath reawakened him. And
if he say that he once killed him, with Gods DEATH is always just a
prejudice. "

--"And thou," said Zarathustra, "thou bad old magician, what didst thou
do! Who ought to believe any longer in thee in this free age, when THOU
believest in such divine donkeyism?

It was a stupid thing that thou didst; how couldst thou, a shrewd man,
do such a stupid thing! "

"O Zarathustra," answered the shrewd magician, "thou art right, it was a
stupid thing,--it was also repugnant to me. "

--"And thou even," said Zarathustra to the spiritually conscientious
one, "consider, and put thy finger to thy nose! Doth nothing go against
thy conscience here? Is thy spirit not too cleanly for this praying and
the fumes of those devotees? "

"There is something therein," said the spiritually conscientious one,
and put his finger to his nose, "there is something in this spectacle
which even doeth good to my conscience.

Perhaps I dare not believe in God: certain it is however, that God
seemeth to me most worthy of belief in this form.

God is said to be eternal, according to the testimony of the most pious:
he who hath so much time taketh his time. As slow and as stupid as
possible: THEREBY can such a one nevertheless go very far.

And he who hath too much spirit might well become infatuated with
stupidity and folly. Think of thyself, O Zarathustra!

Thou thyself--verily! even thou couldst well become an ass through
superabundance of wisdom.

Doth not the true sage willingly walk on the crookedest paths? The
evidence teacheth it, O Zarathustra,--THINE OWN evidence! "

--"And thou thyself, finally," said Zarathustra, and turned towards the
ugliest man, who still lay on the ground stretching up his arm to the
ass (for he gave it wine to drink). "Say, thou nondescript, what hast
thou been about!

Thou seemest to me transformed, thine eyes glow, the mantle of the
sublime covereth thine ugliness: WHAT didst thou do?

Is it then true what they say, that thou hast again awakened him? And
why? Was he not for good reasons killed and made away with?

Thou thyself seemest to me awakened: what didst thou do? why didst THOU
turn round? Why didst THOU get converted? Speak, thou nondescript! "

"O Zarathustra," answered the ugliest man, "thou art a rogue!

Whether HE yet liveth, or again liveth, or is thoroughly dead--which of
us both knoweth that best? I ask thee.

One thing however do I know,--from thyself did I learn it once, O
Zarathustra: he who wanteth to kill most thoroughly, LAUGHETH.

'Not by wrath but by laughter doth one kill'--thus spakest thou once,
O Zarathustra, thou hidden one, thou destroyer without wrath, thou
dangerous saint,--thou art a rogue! "

2.

Then, however, did it come to pass that Zarathustra, astonished at such
merely roguish answers, jumped back to the door of his cave, and turning
towards all his guests, cried out with a strong voice:

"O ye wags, all of you, ye buffoons! Why do ye dissemble and disguise
yourselves before me!

How the hearts of all of you convulsed with delight and wickedness,
because ye had at last become again like little children--namely,
pious,--

--Because ye at last did again as children do--namely, prayed, folded
your hands and said 'good God'!

But now leave, I pray you, THIS nursery, mine own cave, where to-day
all childishness is carried on. Cool down, here outside, your hot
child-wantonness and heart-tumult!

To be sure: except ye become as little children ye shall not enter into
THAT kingdom of heaven. " (And Zarathustra pointed aloft with his hands. )

"But we do not at all want to enter into the kingdom of heaven: we have
become men,--SO WE WANT THE KINGDOM OF EARTH. "

3.

And once more began Zarathustra to speak. "O my new friends," said he,--
"ye strange ones, ye higher men, how well do ye now please me,--

--Since ye have again become joyful! Ye have, verily, all blossomed
forth: it seemeth to me that for such flowers as you, NEW FESTIVALS are
required.

--A little valiant nonsense, some divine service and ass-festival, some
old joyful Zarathustra fool, some blusterer to blow your souls bright.

Forget not this night and this ass-festival, ye higher men! THAT did ye
devise when with me, that do I take as a good omen,--such things only
the convalescents devise!

And should ye celebrate it again, this ass-festival, do it from love to
yourselves, do it also from love to me! And in remembrance of me! "

Thus spake Zarathustra.




LXXIX. THE DRUNKEN SONG.

1.

Meanwhile one after another had gone out into the open air, and into the
cool, thoughtful night; Zarathustra himself, however, led the ugliest
man by the hand, that he might show him his night-world, and the great
round moon, and the silvery water-falls near his cave. There they at
last stood still beside one another; all of them old people, but with
comforted, brave hearts, and astonished in themselves that it was so
well with them on earth; the mystery of the night, however, came nigher
and nigher to their hearts. And anew Zarathustra thought to himself:
"Oh, how well do they now please me, these higher men! "--but he did not
say it aloud, for he respected their happiness and their silence. --

Then, however, there happened that which in this astonishing long day
was most astonishing: the ugliest man began once more and for the last
time to gurgle and snort, and when he had at length found expression,
behold! there sprang a question plump and plain out of his mouth, a
good, deep, clear question, which moved the hearts of all who listened
to him.

"My friends, all of you," said the ugliest man, "what think ye? For the
sake of this day--_I_ am for the first time content to have lived mine
entire life.

And that I testify so much is still not enough for me. It is worth while
living on the earth: one day, one festival with Zarathustra, hath taught
me to love the earth.

'Was THAT--life? ' will I say unto death. 'Well! Once more! '

My friends, what think ye? Will ye not, like me, say unto death: 'Was
THAT--life? For the sake of Zarathustra, well! Once more! '"--

Thus spake the ugliest man; it was not, however, far from midnight.
And what took place then, think ye? As soon as the higher men heard his
question, they became all at once conscious of their transformation and
convalescence, and of him who was the cause thereof: then did they rush
up to Zarathustra, thanking, honouring, caressing him, and kissing his
hands, each in his own peculiar way; so that some laughed and some wept.
The old soothsayer, however, danced with delight; and though he was
then, as some narrators suppose, full of sweet wine, he was certainly
still fuller of sweet life, and had renounced all weariness. There are
even those who narrate that the ass then danced: for not in vain had the
ugliest man previously given it wine to drink. That may be the case, or
it may be otherwise; and if in truth the ass did not dance that evening,
there nevertheless happened then greater and rarer wonders than
the dancing of an ass would have been. In short, as the proverb of
Zarathustra saith: "What doth it matter! "

2.

When, however, this took place with the ugliest man, Zarathustra stood
there like one drunken: his glance dulled, his tongue faltered and his
feet staggered. And who could divine what thoughts then passed through
Zarathustra's soul? Apparently, however, his spirit retreated and fled
in advance and was in remote distances, and as it were "wandering on
high mountain-ridges," as it standeth written, "'twixt two seas,

--Wandering 'twixt the past and the future as a heavy cloud. " Gradually,
however, while the higher men held him in their arms, he came back to
himself a little, and resisted with his hands the crowd of the honouring
and caring ones; but he did not speak. All at once, however, he turned
his head quickly, for he seemed to hear something: then laid he his
finger on his mouth and said: "COME! "

And immediately it became still and mysterious round about; from
the depth however there came up slowly the sound of a clock-bell.
Zarathustra listened thereto, like the higher men; then, however, laid
he his finger on his mouth the second time, and said again: "COME! COME!
IT IS GETTING ON TO MIDNIGHT! "--and his voice had changed. But still
he had not moved from the spot. Then it became yet stiller and more
mysterious, and everything hearkened, even the ass, and Zarathustra's
noble animals, the eagle and the serpent,--likewise the cave of
Zarathustra and the big cool moon, and the night itself. Zarathustra,
however, laid his hand upon his mouth for the third time, and said:

COME! COME! COME! LET US NOW WANDER! IT IS THE HOUR: LET US WANDER INTO
THE NIGHT!

3.

Ye higher men, it is getting on to midnight: then will I say something
into your ears, as that old clock-bell saith it into mine ear,--

--As mysteriously, as frightfully, and as cordially as that midnight
clock-bell speaketh it to me, which hath experienced more than one man:

--Which hath already counted the smarting throbbings of your fathers'
hearts--ah! ah! how it sigheth! how it laugheth in its dream! the old,
deep, deep midnight!

Hush! Hush! Then is there many a thing heard which may not be heard
by day; now however, in the cool air, when even all the tumult of your
hearts hath become still,--

--Now doth it speak, now is it heard, now doth it steal into
overwakeful, nocturnal souls: ah! ah! how the midnight sigheth! how it
laugheth in its dream!

--Hearest thou not how it mysteriously, frightfully, and cordially
speaketh unto THEE, the old deep, deep midnight?

O MAN, TAKE HEED!

4.

Woe to me! Whither hath time gone? Have I not sunk into deep wells? The
world sleepeth--

Ah! Ah! The dog howleth, the moon shineth. Rather will I die, rather
will I die, than say unto you what my midnight-heart now thinketh.

Already have I died. It is all over. Spider, why spinnest thou around
me? Wilt thou have blood? Ah! Ah! The dew falleth, the hour cometh--

--The hour in which I frost and freeze, which asketh and asketh and
asketh: "Who hath sufficient courage for it?

--Who is to be master of the world? Who is going to say: THUS shall ye
flow, ye great and small streams! "

--The hour approacheth: O man, thou higher man, take heed! this talk is
for fine ears, for thine ears--WHAT SAITH DEEP MIDNIGHT'S VOICE INDEED?

5.

It carrieth me away, my soul danceth. Day's-work! Day's-work! Who is to
be master of the world?

The moon is cool, the wind is still. Ah! Ah! Have ye already flown high
enough? Ye have danced: a leg, nevertheless, is not a wing.

Ye good dancers, now is all delight over: wine hath become lees, every
cup hath become brittle, the sepulchres mutter.

Ye have not flown high enough: now do the sepulchres mutter: "Free the
dead! Why is it so long night? Doth not the moon make us drunken? "

Ye higher men, free the sepulchres, awaken the corpses! Ah, why doth the
worm still burrow? There approacheth, there approacheth, the hour,--

--There boometh the clock-bell, there thrilleth still the heart, there
burroweth still the wood-worm, the heart-worm. Ah! Ah! THE WORLD IS
DEEP!

6.

Sweet lyre! Sweet lyre! I love thy tone, thy drunken, ranunculine
tone! --how long, how far hath come unto me thy tone, from the distance,
from the ponds of love!

Thou old clock-bell, thou sweet lyre! Every pain hath torn thy heart,
father-pain, fathers'-pain, forefathers'-pain; thy speech hath become
ripe,--

--Ripe like the golden autumn and the afternoon, like mine anchorite
heart--now sayest thou: The world itself hath become ripe, the grape
turneth brown,

--Now doth it wish to die, to die of happiness. Ye higher men, do ye not
feel it? There welleth up mysteriously an odour,

--A perfume and odour of eternity, a rosy-blessed, brown,
gold-wine-odour of old happiness,

--Of drunken midnight-death happiness, which singeth: the world is deep,
AND DEEPER THAN THE DAY COULD READ!

7.

Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I am too pure for thee. Touch me not!
Hath not my world just now become perfect?

My skin is too pure for thy hands. Leave me alone, thou dull, doltish,
stupid day! Is not the midnight brighter?

The purest are to be masters of the world, the least known, the
strongest, the midnight-souls, who are brighter and deeper than any day.

O day, thou gropest for me? Thou feelest for my happiness? For thee am I
rich, lonesome, a treasure-pit, a gold chamber?

O world, thou wantest ME? Am I worldly for thee? Am I spiritual for
thee? Am I divine for thee? But day and world, ye are too coarse,--

--Have cleverer hands, grasp after deeper happiness, after deeper
unhappiness, grasp after some God; grasp not after me:

--Mine unhappiness, my happiness is deep, thou strange day, but yet am I
no God, no God's-hell: DEEP IS ITS WOE.

8.

God's woe is deeper, thou strange world! Grasp at God's woe, not at me!
What am I! A drunken sweet lyre,--

--A midnight-lyre, a bell-frog, which no one understandeth, but which
MUST speak before deaf ones, ye higher men! For ye do not understand me!

Gone! Gone! O youth! O noontide!