This
world—a
gate
To myriad deserts dumb and hoar!
To myriad deserts dumb and hoar!
Nietzsche - v17 - Ecce Homo
What though they did not soar unto thine height,
Nor reached those far-off, cloud-reared precipices,
For that they sank the deeper so they might
Within themselves light Destiny's abysses.
Thus oft in sullenness perverse and free,
Bent hideous like a savage at his altar,
There, Melancholy, held I thought of thee,
A penitent, though youthful, with his psalter.
* Translated by Herman Scheffauer.
149
## p. 150 (#206) ############################################
150
POETRY
crouched all of the avalanche false like mal' faces.
So crouched did I enjoy the vulture's span,
The thunder of the avalanche's paces,
Thou spakest to me-nor wast false like man,
Thou spakest, but with stern and dreadful faces.
Harsh goddess thou of Nature wild and stark,
Mistress, that com'st with threats to daunt and
quell me,
To point me out the vulture's airy arc
And laughing avalanches, to repel me.
Around us gnashing pants the lust to kill,
The torment to win life in all its changes;
Alluring on some cliff, abrupt and chill,
Some flower craves the butterfly that ranges.
All this am 1-shuddering I feel it all-
O butterfly beguiled, O lonely flower,
The vulture and the ice-pent waterfall,
The moaning storm-all symbols of thy power,
Thou goddess grim before whom deeply bowed,
With head on knee, my lips with pæans bursting,
I lift a dreadful song and cry aloud
For Life, for Life, for Life-forever thirsting!
O vengeful goddess, be not wroth, I ask,
That I to mesh thee in my rhymes have striven.
He trembles who beholds thine awful mask;
He quails to whom thy dread right hand is given.
Song upon trembling song by starts and fits
I chant, in rhythm all my thought unfolding,
The black ink flows, the pointed goose-quill spits,
O goddess, goddess—leave me to my scolding !
## p. 151 (#207) ############################################
SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC.
151
AFTER A NIGHT STORM *
TO-DAY in misty veils thou hangest dimly,
Gloomy goddess, o'er my window-pane.
Grimly whirl the pallid snow-flakes, grimly
Roars the swollen brook unto the plain.
Ah, by light of haggard levins glaring,
'Neath the untamed thunder's roar and roll,
'Midst the valley's murk wast thou preparing-
Sorceress ! thy dank and poisoned bowl.
Shuddering, I heard through midnight breaking
Raptures of thy voice—and howls of pain.
Saw thy bright orbs gleam, thy right hand shaking
With the mace of thunder hurled amain.
Near my dreary couch I heard the crashes
Of thine armoured steps, heard weapons slam,
Heard thy brazen chain strike 'gainst the sashes,
And thy voice: “Come! hearken who I am!
The immortal Amazon they call me;
All things weak and womanish I shun;
Manly scorn and hate in war enthral me;
Victress I and tigress all in one!
Where I tread there corpses fall before me;
From mine eyes the furious torches fly,
And my brain thinks poisons. Bend, adore me!
Worm of Earth and Will o' Wisp-or die! ”
* Translated by Herman Scheffauer.
## p. 152 (#208) ############################################
152
POETRY
HYMNS TO FRIENDSHIP
(Two Fragments)
GODDESS FRIENDSHIP, deign to hear the song
That we sing in friendship's honour!
Where the eye of friendship glances,
Filled with all the joy of friendship
Come thou nigh to aid me,
Rosy dawn in thy gaze and
In holy hand the faithful pledge of youth eternal.
Morning's past: the sun of noonday
Scorches with hot ray our heads.
Let us sit beneath the arbour
Singing songs in praise of friendship.
Friendship was our life's red dawning,
And its sunset red shall be.
THE WANDERER *
ALL through the night a wanderer walks
Sturdy of stride,
With winding vale and sloping height
E'er at his side.
Fair is the night:
On, on he strides, nor slackens speed,
And knows not where his path will lead.
* This poem was written on the betrothal of one of
Nietzsche's Bale friends. -TR.
## p. 153 (#209) ############################################
SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 153
A bird's song in the night is heard,
"Ah me, what hast thou done, O bird,
How dost thou grip my sense and feet
And pourest heart-vexation sweet
Into mine ear—I must remain,
To hearken fain:
Why lure me with inviting strain? "
The good bird speaks, staying his song:
"I lure not thee,—no, thou art wrong—
With these my trills
I lure my mate from off the hills—
Nor heed thy plight.
To me alone the night's not fair.
What's that to thee? Forth must thou fare,
On, onward ever, resting ne'er.
Why stand'st thou now?
What has my piping done to thee,
Thou roaming wight? "
The good bird pondered, silent quite,
"Why doth my piping change his plight?
Why stands he now,
That luckless, luckless, roaming wight? "
To the Glacier
At noontide hour, when first,
Into the mountains Summer treads,
Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary,
Then too he speaks,
Yet we can only see his speech.
## p. 153 (#210) ############################################
152
POETRY
HYMNS TO FRIENDSHIP
(Two Fragments)
GODDESS FRIENDSHIP, deign to hear the song
That we sing in friendship's honour!
Where the eye of friendship glances,
Filled with all the joy of friendship
Come thou nigh to aid me,
Rosy dawn in thy gaze and
In holy hand the faithful pledge of youth eternal.
Morning's past: the sun of noonday
Scorches with hot ray our heads.
Let us sit beneath the arbour
Singing songs in praise of friendship.
Friendship was our life's red dawning,
And its sunset red shall be.
THE WANDERER *
ALL through the night a wanderer walks
Sturdy of stride,
With winding vale and sloping height
E'er at his side.
Fair is the night:
On, on he strides, nor slackens speed,
And knows not where his path will lead.
* This poem was written on the betrothal of one of
Nietzsche's Bâle friends. -TR.
## p. 153 (#211) ############################################
SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC.
153
A bird's song in the night is heard,
“Ah me, what hast thou done, o bird,
How dost thou grip my sense and feet
And pourest heart-vexation sweet
Into mine ear-I must remain,
To hearken fain:
Why lure me with inviting strain ? "
The good bird speaks, staying his song :
"I lure not thee,-no, thou art wrong-
With these my trills
I lure my mate from off the hills-
Nor heed thy plight.
To me alone the night's not fair.
What's that to thee? Forth must thou fare,
On, onward ever, resting ne'er.
Why stand'st thou now?
What has my piping done to thee,
Thou roaming wight? "
The good bird pondered, silent quite,
“Why doth my piping change his plight ?
Why stands he now,
That luckless, luckless, roaming wight? ”
TO THE GLACIER
At noontide hour, when first,
Into the mountains Summer treads,
Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary,
Then too he speaks,
Yet we can only see his speech.
## p. 154 (#212) ############################################
154 POETRY
His breath is panting, like the sick man's breath
On fevered couch.
The glacier and the fir tree and the spring
Answer his call
—Yet we their answer only see.
For faster from the rock leaps down
The torrent stream, as though to greet,
And stands, like a white column trembling,
All yearning there.
And darker yet and truer looks the fir-tree
Than e'er before.
And 'twixt the ice-mass and the cold grey
stone
A sudden light breaks forth
Such light I once beheld, and marked the
sign.
Even the dead man's eye
Surely once more grows light,
When, sorrowful, his child
Gives him embrace and kiss:
Surely once more the flame of light
Wells out, and glowing into life
The dead eye speaks: "My child!
Ah child, you know I love you true! "
So all things glow and speak — the glacier
speaks,
The brook, the fir,
Speak with their glance the selfsame words:
We love you true,
Ah, child, you know we love you, love you true!
## p. 155 (#213) ############################################
SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC.
155
And he,
Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary,
Woe-worn, gives kisses
More ardent ever,
And will not go:
But like to veils he blows his words
From out his lips,
His cruel words:
“My greeting's parting,
My coming going,
In youth I die. ”
All round they hearken
And scarcely breathe
(No songster sings),
And shuddering run
Like gleaming ray
Over the mountain;
All round they ponder,-
Nor speak-
'Twas at the noon,
At noontide hour, when first
Into the mountains Summer treads,
Summer, the boy with eyes so hot and weary.
AUTUMN *
'Tis Autumn :-Autumn yet shall break thy heart !
Fly away! fly away ! -
The sun creeps 'gainst the hill
And climbs and climbs
And rests at every step.
* Translated by Herman Scheffauer.
## p. 156 (#214) ############################################
156
POETRY
How faded grew the world!
On weary, slackened strings the wind
Playeth his tune.
Fair Hope fled far-
He waileth after.
Fayeth his lackened world !
'Tis Autumn :-Autumn yet shall break thy heart !
Fly away! Ay away!
O fruit o' the tree,
Thou tremblest, fallest ?
What secret whispered unto thee
The Night,
That icy shudders deck thy cheek,
Thy cheek of purple hue ?
Silent art thou, nor dost reply
Who speaketh still ? —
'Tis Autumn :-Autumn yet shall break thy heart !
Fly away! fly away! -
“I am not fair,” —
So speaks the lone star-flower,-
“Yet men I love
And comfort men-
Many flowers shall they behold,
And stoop to me,
And break me, ah !
So that within their eyes shall gleam
Remembrance swift,
Remembrance of far fairer things than I :-
I see it-see it—and I perish so. ”
'Tis Autumn:-Autumn yet shall break thy heart!
Fly away! fly away!
## p. 157 (#215) ############################################
songs, epigrams, etc. 157
Campo Santo di Staglieno*
Maiden, in gentle wise
You stroke your lamb's soft fleece,
Yet flashing from your eyes
Both light and flame ne'er cease.
Creature of merry jest
And favourite near and far,
Pious, with kindness blest,
Amorosissima!
What broke so soon the chain,
What does your heart deplore?
And who, pray, would not fain,
If you loved him, adore ? —
You're mute, but from your eye,
The tear-drop is not far,
You're mute: you'll yearn and die,
Amorosissima?
The Little Brig named "Little Angel"f
"Little Angel " call they me! —
Now a ship, but once a girl,
Ah, and still too much a girl!
My steering-wheel, so bright to see,
But for sake of love doth whirl.
* Campo Santo di Staglieno is the cemetery of Staglieno,
near Genoa. The poem was inspired by the sight of a girl
with a lamb on the tombstone, with the words underneath—
"Pia, caritatevole, amorosissima. "
t Published by Nietzsche himself. The poem was inspired
by a ship that was christened Angiolina, in memory of a
love-sick girl who leapt into the sea. —Tr.
## p. 158 (#216) ############################################
158 POETRY
"Little Angel" call they me,
With hundred flags to ornament,
A captain smart, on glory bent,
Steers me, puffed with vanity
(He himself s an ornament).
"Little Angel" call they me,
And where'er a little flame
Gleams for me, I, like a lamb,
Go my journey eagerly
(1 was always such a lamb! ).
"Little Angel" call they me—
Think you I can bark and whine
Like a dog, this mouth of mine
Throwing smoke and flame full free?
Ah, a devil's mouth is mine.
"Little Angel" call they me—
Once I spoke a bitter word,
That my lover, when he heard,
Fast and far away did flee:
Yes, I killed him with that word!
"Little Angel" call they me:
Hardly heard, I sprang so glib
From the cliff and broke a rib:
From my frame my soul went free,
Yes, escaped me through that rib.
"Little Angel" call they me—
Then my soul, like cat in flight
Straight did on this ship alight
Swiftly bounding—one, two, three!
Yes, its claws are swift to smite.
## p. 159 (#217) ############################################
SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC.
159
“ Little Angel” call they me!
Now a ship, but once a girl,
Ah, and still too much a girl!
My steering-wheel, so bright to see,
For sake of love alone doth whirl.
MAIDEN'S SONG
YESTERDAY with seventeen years
Wisdom reached I, a maiden fair,
I am grey-haired, it appears,
Now in all things—save my hair.
Yesterday, I had a thought,
Was't a thought you laugh and scorn!
Did you ever have a thought ?
Rather was a feeling born.
Dare a woman think? This screed
Wisdom long ago begot:
“Follow woman must, not lead;
If she thinks, she follows not. ”.
Wisdom speaks—I credit naught:
Rather hops and stings like flea:
“Woman seldom harbours thought;
If she thinks, no good is she! ”
To this wisdom, old, renowned,
Bow I in deep reverence:
Now my wisdom I'll expound
In its very quintessence.
## p. 160 (#218) ############################################
160
POETRY
A voice spoke in me yesterday
As ever-listen if you can:
“Woman is more beauteous aye,
But more interesting-man! ”
“PIA, CARITATEVOLE, AMOROSISSIMA” .
CAVE where the dead ones rest,
O marble falsehood, thee
I love: for easy jest
My soul thou settest free.
To-day, to-day alone,
My soul to tears is stirred,
At thee, the pictured stone,
At thee, the graven word.
This picture (none need wis)
I kissed the other day.
When there's so much to kiss
Why did I kiss the-clay?
Who knows the reason why?
“A tombstone fool! ” you laugh:
I kissed-l'll not deny-
E'en the long epitaph.
TO FRIENDSHIP
HAIL to thee, Friendship!
My hope consummate,
My first red daybreak!
Alas, so endless
* See above, p. 157. Both poems were inspired by the same
tombstone. -TR.
## p. 161 (#219) ############################################
SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. l6l
Oft path and night seemed,
And life's long road
Aimless and hateful!
Now life I'd double
In thine eyes seeing
Dawn-glory, triumph,
Most gracious goddess!
Pine Tree and Lightning
O'er man and beast I grew so high,
And speak—but none will give reply.
Too lone and tall my crest did soar:
I wait: what am I waiting for?
The clouds are grown too nigh of late,
'Tis the first lightning I await.
Tree in Autumn
Why did ye, blockheads, me awaken
While I in blissful blindness stood?
Ne'er I by fear more fell was shaken—
Vanished my golden dreaming mood.
Bear-elephants, with trunks all greedy,
Knock first! Where have your manners fled?
I threw—and fear has made me speedy—
Dishes of ripe fruit—at your head.
## p. 162 (#220) ############################################
162 POETRY
Among Foes (or Against Critics)
{After a Gipsy Proverb)
Here the gallows, there the cord,
And the hangman's ruddy beard.
Round, the venom-glancing horde :—
Nothing new to me's appeared.
Many times I've seen the sight,
Now laughing in your face I cry,
"Hanging me is useless quite:
Die? Nay, nay, I cannot die! "
Beggars all! Ye envy me
Winning what ye never won!
True, I suffer agony,
But for you—your life is done.
Many times I've faced death's plight,
Yet steam and light and breath am I.
Hanging me is useless quite:
Die? Nay, nay, I cannot die!
The New Columbus*
"Dearest," said Columbus, " never
Trust a Genoese again.
At the blue he gazes ever,
Distance doth his soul enchain.
Strangeness is to me too dear—
Genoa has sunk and passed—
Heart, be cool! Hand, firmly steer!
Sea before me: land—at last?
*The Genoese is Nietzsche himself, who lived a great
part of his life at Genoa. —Tr.
## p. 163 (#221) ############################################
SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 163
Firmly let us plant our feet,
Ne'er can we give up this game—
From the distance what doth greet?
One death, one happiness, one fame.
In Lonesomeness *
The cawing crows
Townwards on whirring pinions roam;
Soon come the snows—
Thrice happy now who hath a home!
Fast-rooted there,
Thou gazest backwards—oh, how long!
Thou fool, why dare
Ere winter come, this world of wrong?
This world—a gate
To myriad deserts dumb and hoar!
Who lost through fate
What thou hast lost, shall rest no more.
Now stand'st thou pale,
A frozen pilgrimage thy doom,
Like smoke whose trail
Cold and still colder skies consume.
Fly, bird, and screech,
Like desert-fowl, thy song apart!
Hide out of reach,
Fool! in grim ice thy bleeding heart.
* Translated by Herman Scheffauer.
## p. 164 (#222) ############################################
164
POETRY
The cawing Crows
Town wards on whirring pinions roam ;
Soon come the snows-
Woe unto him who hath no home!
My Answer
The man presumes-
Good Lord ! -to think that I'd return
To those warm rooms
Where snug the German ovens burn
My friend, you see
'Tis but thy folly drives me far,-
Pity for thee
And all that German blockheads are !
VENICE
On the bridge I stood,
Mellow was the night,
Music came from far-
Drops of gold outpoured
On the shimmering waves.
Song, gondolas, light,
Floated a-twinkling out into the dusk.
The chords of my soul, moved
By unseen impulse, throbbed
Secretly into a gondola song,
With thrills of bright-hued ecstasy.
Had I a listener there?
## p. 165 (#223) ############################################
EPIGRAMS
Caution: Poison ! *
He who cannot laugh at this had better not start
reading;
For if he read and do not laugh, physic he'll be
needing!
How to find One's Company
WITH jesters it is good to jest:
Who likes to tickle, is tickled best.
The Word
I DEARLY love the living word,
That flies to you like a merry bird,
Ready with pleasant nod to greet,
E'en in misfortune welcome, sweet,
Yet it has blood, can pant you deep:
Then to the dove's ear it will creep:
And curl itself, or start for flight—
Whate'er it does, it brings delight.
Yet tender doth the word remain,
Soon it is ill, soon well again:
* Translated by Francis Bickley.
165
## p. 166 (#224) ############################################
166 POETRY
So if its little life you'd spare,
O grasp it lightly and with care,
Nor heavy hand upon it lay,
For e'en a cruel glance would slay!
There it would lie, unsouled, poor thing!
All stark, all formless, and all cold,
Its little body changed and battered,
By death and dying rudely shattered.
A dead word is a hateful thing,
A barren, rattling, ting-ting-ting.
A curse on ugly trades I cry
That doom all little words to die!
The Wanderer and his Shadow
A Book
You'll ne'er go on nor yet go back?
Is e'en for chamois here no track?
So here I wait and firmly clasp
What eye and hand will let me grasp!
Five-foot-broad ledge, red morning's breath,
And under me—world, man, and death!
Joyful Wisdom
THIS is no book—for such, who looks?
Coffins and shrouds, naught else, are books!
What's dead and gone they make their prey,
Yet in my book lives fresh To-day.
## p. 167 (#225) ############################################
SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 167
This is no book—for such, who looks?
Who cares for coffins, shrouds, and spooks?
This is a promise, an act of will,
A last bridge-breaking, for good or ill;
A wind from sea, an anchor light,
A whirr of wheels, a steering right.
The cannon roars, white smokes its flame,
The sea—the monster—laughs and scents its game.
Dedication *
He who has much to tell, keeps much
Silent and unavowed.
He who with lightning-flash would touch
Must long remain a cloud!
The New Testament!
Is this your Book of Sacred Lore,
For blessing, cursing, and such uses ? -
Come, come now: at the very door
God some one else's wife seduces?
The "True German"
"O PEUPLE des meillures Tartuffes,
To you I'm true, I wis. "
He spoke, but in the swiftest skiff"
Went to Cosmopolis.
* On the title-page of a copy of Joyful Wisdom, dedicated
to Herr August Bungal. —Tr.
t Translated by Francis Bickley.
## p. 168 (#226) ############################################
168
POETRY
TO THE DARWINIANS *
A FOOL this honest Britisher
Was not . . . But a Philosopher!
As that you really rate him?
Set Darwin up by Goethe's side ?
But majesty you thus deride-
Genii majestatem !
To HAFIZ
(Toast Question of a Water-Drinker)
WHAT you have builded, yonder inn,
O’ertops all houses high :
The posset you have brewed therein
The world will ne'er drink dry.
The bird that once appeared on earth
As phenix, is your guest.
The mouse that gave a mountain birth
Is you yourself confessed !
You're all and naught, you're inn and wine,
You're phenix, mountain, mouse.
Back to yourself to come you pine
Or fly from out your house.
Downward from every height you've sunk,
And in the depths still shine:
The drunkenness of all the drunk,
Why do you ask for—wine ?
* Translated by Francis Bickley.
## p. 169 (#227) ############################################
SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 169
To Spinoza
Of " All in One " a fervent devotee
A more Dei, of reasoned piety,
Doff shoes! A land thrice holy this must be! —
Yet underneath this love there sate
A torch of vengeance, burning secretly
The Hebrew God was gnawed by Hebrew hate.
Hermit! Do I aright interpret thee?
Arthur Schopenhauer
That which he taught, has had its day,
That which he lived, shall live for aye:
Look at the man! No bondsman he!
Nor e'er to mortal bowed his knee!
To Richard Wagner
O YOU who chafe at every fetter's link,
A restless spirit, never free:
Who, though victorious aye, in bonds still cowered,
Disgusted more and more, and flayed and scoured,
Till from each cup of balm you poison drink,
Alas! and by the Cross all helpless sink,
You too, you too, among the overpowered!
For long I watched this play so weirdly shaped,
Breathing an air of prison, vault, and dread,
With churchly fragrance, clouds of incense spread,
And yet I found all strange, in terror gaped.
But now I throw my fool's cap o'er my head,
For I escaped!
## p. 170 (#228) ############################################
170
POETRY
MUSIC OF THE SOUTH *
ALL that my eagle e'er saw clear,
I see and feel in heart to-day
(Although my hope was wan and gray)
Thy song like arrow pierced mine ear,
A balm to touch, a balm to hear,
As down from heaven it winged its way.
So now for lands of southern fire
To happy isles where Grecian nymphs hold sport!
Thither now turn the ship's desire
No ship e'er sped to fairer port.
A RIDDLE
A RIDDLE here can you the answer scent?
“When man discovers, woman must invent. ”—
TO FALSE FRIENDS
You stole, your eye's not clear to-day.
You only stole a thought, sir? nay,
Why be so rudely modest, pray?
Here, take another handful—stay,
Take all I have, you swine-you may
Eat till your filth is purged away.
FRIEND YORICK
BE of good cheer,
Friend Yorick! If this thought gives pain,
As now it does, I fear,
* Probably written for Peter Gast, Nietzsche's faithful
friend, and a musician whose “Southern ” music Nietzsche
admired. - TR
## p. 171 (#229) ############################################
SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 171
Is it not " God "? And though in error lain,
'Tis but your own dear child,
Your flesh and blood,
That tortures you and gives you pain,
Your little rogue and do-no-good,
See if the rod will change its mood!
In brief, friend Yorick, leave that drear
Philosophy—and let me now
Whisper one word as medicine,
My own prescription, in your ear,
My remedy against such spleen—
"Who loves his God, chastises him, I ween. "
Resolution
I SHOULD be wise to suit my mood,
Not at the beck of other men:
God made as stupid as he could
The world—well, let me praise him then.
And if I make not straight my track,
But, far as may be, wind and bend,
That's how the sage begins his tack,
And that is how the fool will—end.
The world stands never still,
Night loves the glowing day—
Sweet sounds to ear " I will! "
And sweeter still " I may! "
## p. 172 (#230) ############################################
172
POETRY
THE HALCYONIAN *
ADDRESSING me most bashfully,
A woman to-day said this :
“What would you be like in ecstasy,
If sober you feel such bliss ? ”
FINALE *
LAUGHTER is a serious art.
I would do it better daily.
Did I well to-day or no?
Came the spark right from the heart?
Little use though head wag gaily,
If the heart contain no glow.
* Translated by Francis Bickley.
## p. 173 (#231) ############################################
DIONYSUS-DITHYRAMBS
(1888)
These are the songs of Zarathustra which he sang to
himself so as to endure his last solitude.
173
## p. 174 (#232) ############################################
## p. 175 (#233) ############################################
DIONYSUS-DITHYRAMBS
OF THE POVERTY OF THE RICHEST
TEN years passed by,
Not a drop reached me,
No rain-fraught wind, no dew of love
-A rainless land. . . .
Now entreat I my wisdom
Not to become stingy in this drought;
Overflow thyself, trickle thy dew,
Be thyself the rain of the parched wilderness !
I once bade the clouds
Depart from my mountains ;
Once I said to them,
“More light, ye dark ones! ”
To-day I entice them to come:
Make me dark with your udders:
- I would milk you,
Ye cows of the heights !
Milk-warm wisdom, sweet dew of love
I pour over the land.
Away, away, ye truths
That look so gloomy !
I will not have on my mountains
Bitter, impatient truths.
175
## p. 176 (#234) ############################################
176
POETRY
May truth approach me to-day
Gilded by smiles,
Sweetened by the sun, browned by love,-
A ripe truth I would fain break off from the tree.
To-day I stretch my hands
Toward the tresses of chance,
Wise enough to lead,
To outwit chance like a child.
To-day I will be hospitable
'Gainst the unwelcome,
'Gainst destiny itself I will not be prickly. . . .
-Zarathustra is no hedgehog.
My soul,
Insatiable with its tongue,
Has already tasted of all things good and evil,
And has dived into all depths.
But ever, like the cork,
It swims to the surface again,
And floats like oil upon brown seas:
Because of this soul men call me fortunate.
Who are my father and mother ?
Is not my father Prince Plenty?
And my mother Silent Laughter?
Did not the union of these two
Beget me, the enigmatic beast-
Me, the monster of light-
Me, Zarathustra, the squanderer of all wisdom?
Sick to-day from tenderness,
A dewy wind,
## p. 177 (#235) ############################################
DIONYSUS-DITHYRAMBS 177
Zarathustra sits waiting, waiting on his moun-
tains-
Sweet and stewing
In his own juice,
Beneath his own summit,
Beneath his ice,
Weary and happy,
A Creator on his seventh day.
-Silence !
A truth passes over me
Like a cloud,
With invisible lightnings it strikes me,
On broad, slow stairs,
Its happiness climbs to me:
Come, come, beloved truth!
-Silence!
'Tis my truth !
From timid eyes,
From velvet shudders,
Her glance meets mine,
Sweet and wicked, a maiden's glance.
She has guessed the reason of my happiness,
She has guessed me—ha! what is she thinking?
A purple dragon
Lurks in the abyss of her maiden's glance.
is glannapping king?
-Silence! My truth is speaking ! -
“Woe to thee, Zarathustra!
Thou lookest like one
That hath swallowed gold:
They will slit up thy belly yet!
M
## p. 178 (#236) ############################################
178
POETRY
Thou art too rich,
Thou corrupter of many!
Thou makest too many jealous,
Too many poor. . . .
Even on me thy light casts a shadow-
I feel chill: go away, thou rich one
Go away, Zarathustra, from the path of thy sun! ”
BETWEEN BIRDS OF PREY
Who would here descend,
How soon
Is he swallowed up by the depths !
But thou, Zarathustra,
Still lovest the abysses,
Lovest them as doth the fir tree!
The fir Alings its roots
Where the rock itself gazes
Shuddering at the depths,-
The fir pauses before the abysses
Where all around
Would fain descend :
Amid the impatience
Of wild, rolling, leaping torrents
It waits so patient, stern and silent,
Lonely. . . .
Lonely!
Who would venture
Here to be guest-
To be thy guest ?
## p. 179 (#237) ############################################
DIONYSUS-DITHYRAMBS
179
A bird of prey, perchance
Joyous at others' misfortune,
Will cling persistent
To the hair of the steadfast watcher,
With frenzied laughter,
A vulture's laughter. . . .
Wherefore so steadfast ?
- Mocks he so cruel:
He must have wings, who loves the abyss,
He must not stay on the cliff,
As thou who hangest there! -
O Zarathustra,
Cruellest Nimrod !
Of late still a hunter of God,
A spider's web to capture virtue,
An arrow of evil !
Now
Hunted by thyself,
Thine own prey
Caught in the grip of thine own soul.
Now
Lonely to me and thee,
Twofold in thine own knowledge,
Mid a hundred mirrors
False to thyself,
Mid a hundred memories
Uncertain,
Weary at every wound,
Shivering at every frost,
Throttled in thine own noose,
Self-knower!
Self-hangman!
## p. 180 (#238) ############################################
180
POETRY
Why didst bind thyself
With the noose of thy wisdom?
Why luredst thyself
Into the old serpent's paradise ?
Why stolest into
Thyself, thyself? . . .
A sick man now,
Sick of serpent's poison,
A captive now
Who hast drawn the hardest lot:
In thine own shaft
Bowed as thou workest,
In thine own cavern
Digging at thyself,
Helpless quite,
Stiff,
A cold corse
Overwhelmed with a hundred burdens,
Overburdened by thyself,
A knower!
A self-knower !
The wise Zarathustra! . . .
Thou soughtest the heaviest burden,
So foundest thou thyself,
And canst not shake thyself off. . . .
Watching,
Chewing,
One that stands upright no more!
Thou wilt grow deformed even in thy grave,
Deformed spirit !
## p. 181 (#239) ############################################
DIONYSUS-DITHYRAMBS
181
And of late still so proud
On all the stilts of thy pride!
Of late still the godless hermit,
The hermit with one comrade—the devil,
The scarlet prince of every devilment! .
