EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY

The editor begs to state that, contrary to his announcement in the Editorial Note to The Joyful Wisdom, in which he declared his intention of publishing all of Nietzsche's poetry, he has nevertheless withheld certain less important verses from publication. This alteration in his plans is due to his belief that it is an injustice and an indiscretion on the part of posterity to surprise an author, as it were, in his négligé, or, in plain English, "in his shirt-sleeves." Authors generally are very sensitive on this point, and rightly so: a visit behind the scenes is not precisely to the advantage of the theatre, and even finished pictures not yet framed are not readily shown by the careful artist. As the German edition, however, contains nearly all that Nietzsche left behind, either in small notebooks or on scraps of paper, the editor could not well suppress everything that was not prepared for publication by Nietzsche himself, more particularly as some of the verses are really very remarkable. He has, therefore, made a very plentiful selection from the Songs and Epigrams, nearly all of which are to be found translated here, and from the Fragments of the Dionysus Dithyrambs, of which over half have been given. All the complete Dionysus Dithyrambs appear in this volume, save those which are duplicates of verses already translated in the Fourth Part of Zarathustra. These Dionysus Dithyrambs were prepared ready for press by Nietzsche himself. He wrote the final manuscript during the summer of 1888 in Sils Maria; their actual composition, however, belongs to an earlier date.

All the verses, unless otherwise stated, have been translated by Mr. Paul Victor Cohn.

SONGS, EPIGRAMS, ETC.

SONGS

TO MELANCHOLY[1] O Melancholy, be not wroth with me That I this pen should point to praise thee only, And in thy praise, with head bowed to the knee, Squat like a hermit on a tree-stump lonely. Thus oft thou saw'st me,—yesterday, at least,— Full in the morning sun and its hot beaming, While, visioning the carrion of his feast, The hungry vulture valleyward flew screaming. Yet didst thou err, foul bird, albeit I, So like a mummy 'gainst my log lay leaning! Thou couldst not see these eyes whose ecstasy Rolled hither, thither, proud and overweening. What though they did not soar unto thine height, or 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. 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 are 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 I—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! AFTER A NIGHT STORM[2] 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!" HYMNS TO FRIENDSHIP (Two Fragments) 1 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. 2 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[3] 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. 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. 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! 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[4] '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. How faded grew the world! On weary, slackened strings the wind Playeth his tune. Fair Hope fled far— He waileth after. 'Tis Autumn:—Autumn yet shall break thy heart! Fly away! fly away! O fruit of 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! CAMPO SANTO DI STAGLIENO[5] 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"[6] "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. "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 (I 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. "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. A voice spoke in me yesterday As ever—listen if you can: "Woman is more beauteous aye, But more interesting—man!" "PIA, CARITATEVOLE, AMOROSISSIMA"[7] 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—I'll not deny— E'en the long epitaph. TO FRIENDSHIP Hail to thee, Friendship! My hope consummate, My first red daybreak! Alas, so endless 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. 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[8] "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? 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[9] 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. 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. The cawing crows Townwards 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?

EPIGRAMS

CAUTION: POISON![1] 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: 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. 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[2] 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[3] 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. TO THE DARWINIANS[4] 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 phœnix, 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 phœnix, 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? TO SPINOZA Of "All in One" a fervent devotee Amore 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! MUSIC OF THE SOUTH[5] 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, 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!" THE HALCYONIAN[6] Addressing me most bashfully, A woman to-day said this: "What would you be like in ecstasy, If sober you feel such bliss?" FINALE[6] 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.

DIONYSUS-DITHYRAMBS

(1888)

These are the songs of Zarathustra which he sang to himself so as to endure his last solitude.

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. 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, Zarathustra sits waiting, waiting on his mountains— 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. —Silence! My truth is speaking!— "Woe to thee, Zarathustra! Thou lookest like one That hath swallowed gold: They will slit up thy belly yet! 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 flings 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? 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! 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! 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!... Now— Between two nothings Huddled up, A question-mark, A weary riddle, A riddle for vultures.... They will "solve" thee, They hunger already for thy "solution," They flutter already about their "riddle," About thee, the doomed one! O Zarathustra, Self-knower! Self-hangman! THE SUN SINKS I Not much longer thirstest thou, O burnt-up heart! Promise is in the air, From unknown mouths I feel a breath, —The great coolness comes.... My sun stood hot above me at noonday: A greeting to you that are coming, Ye sudden winds, Ye cool spirits of afternoon! The air is strange and pure. See how the night Leers at me with eyes askance, Like a seducer!... Be strong, my brave heart, And ask not "Why?" 2 The day of my life! The sun sinks, And the calm flood Already is gilded. Warm breathes the rock: Did happiness at noonday Take its siesta well upon it? In green light Happiness still glimmers up from the brown abyss Day of my life! Eventide's nigh, Thy eye already Glows half-broken, Thy dew already Pours out its tear-drops, Already over the white seas Walks the purple of thy love, Thy last hesitating holiness.... 3 Golden gaiety, come! Thou, the sweetest foretaste— Foretaste of death! —Went I my way too swiftly? Now that the foot grows weary, Thine eye still catches me, Thy happiness still catches me. Around but waves and play. Whatever was hard —Sank into blue oblivion. My boat now stands idle. Storm and motion—how did it forget them! Desire and Hope are drowned, Sea and soul are becalmed. Seventh Solitude! Never felt! Sweet certainty nearer, Or warmer the sun's ray. —Glows not the ice of my summit yet? Silvery, light, a fish Now my vessel swims out.... THE LAST DESIRE[1] So would I die As then I saw him die, The friend, who like a god Into my darkling youth Threw lightning's light and fire: Buoyant yet deep was he, Yea, in the battle's strife With the gay dancer's heart. Amid the warriors His was the lightest heart, Amid the conquerors His brow was dark with thought— He was a fate poised on his destiny: Unbending, casting thought into the past And future, such was he. Fearful beneath the weight of victory, Yet chanting, as both victory and death Came hand and hand to him. Commanding even as he lay in death, And his command that man annihilate. So would I die As then I saw him die, Victorious and destroying. THE BEACON Here, where the island grew amid the seas, A sacrificial rock high-towering, Here under darkling heavens, Zarathustra lights his mountain-fires, A beacon for ships that have strayed, A beacon for them that have an answer!... These flames with grey-white belly, In cold distances sparkle their desire, Stretches its neck towards ever purer heights— A snake upreared in impatience: This signal I set up there before me. This flame is mine own soul, Insatiable for new distances, Speeding upward, upward its silent heat. Why flew Zarathustra from beasts and men? Why fled he swift from all continents? Six solitudes he knows already— But even the sea was not lonely enough for him, On the island he could climb, on the mount he became flame, At the seventh solitude He casts a fishing-rod far o'er his head. Storm-tossed seamen! Wreckage of ancient stars Ye seas of the future! Uncompassed heavens! At all lonely ones I now throw my fishing-rod. Give answer to the flame's impatience, Let me, the fisher on high mountains, Catch my seventh, last solitude!—— FAME AND ETERNITY[2] I Speak, tell me, how long wilt thou brood Upon this adverse fate of thine? Beware, lest from thy doleful mood A countenance 90 dark is brewed That men in seeing thee divine A hate more bitter than the brine. * * * * Speak, why does Zarathustra roam Upon the towering mountain-height? Distrustful, cankered, dour, his home Is shut so long from human sight? * * * * See, suddenly flames forth a lightning-flash, The pit profound with thunderous challenge fights Against the heavens, midst clamorous crack and crash Of the great mountain! Cradled in the heights, Born as the fruit of hate and lightning's love, The wrath of Zarathustra dwells above And looms with menace of a thundercloud. * * * * Ye, who have roofs, go quickly, creep and hide! To bed, ye tenderlings! For thunders loud Upon the blasts of storm triumphant ride, And bastions and ramparts sway and rock, The lightning sears the dusky face of night, And eerie truths like gleams of Hades mock The sense familiar. So in storm breaks forth The flaming curse of Zarathustra's wrath. 2 This fame, which all the wide world loves, I touch with gloves, And scorning beat Beneath my feet. * * * * Who hanker after the pay of it? Who cast themselves in the way of it? These prostitutes to gold, These merchant folk. They fold Their unctuous palms over the jingling fame, Whose ringing chink wins all the world's acclaim. * * * * Hast thou the lust to buy? It needs no skill. They are all venal. Let thy purse be deep, And let their greedy paws unhindered creep Into its depths. So let them take their fill, For if thou dost not offer them enough, Their "virtue" they'll parade, to hide their huff. * * * * They are all virtuous, yea every one. Virtue and fame are ever in accord So long as time doth run, The tongues that prate of virtue as reward Earn fame. For virtue is fame's clever bawd. * * * * Amongst these virtuous, I prefer to be One guilty of all vile and horrid sin! And when I see fame's importunity So advertise her shameless harlotry, Ambition turns to gall. Amidst such kin One place alone, the lowest, would I win. * * * * This fame, which all the wide world loves, I touch with gloves, And scorning beat Beneath my feet. 3 Hush! I see vastness!—and of vasty things Shall man be dumb, unless he can enshrine Them with his words? Then take the might which brings The heart upon thy tongue, charmed wisdom mine! * * * * I look above, there rolls the star-strown sea. O night, mute silence, voiceless cry of stars! And lo! A sign! The heaven its verge unbars— A shining constellation falls towards me. 4 O loftiest, star-clustered crown of Being! O carved tablets of Eternity! And dost thou truly bend thy way to me? Thy loveliness, to all—obscurity, What? Fear'st not to unveil before my seeing? * * * * O shield of Destiny! O carven tablets of Eternity! Yea, verily, thou knowest—what mankind doth hate, What I alone do love: thou art inviolate To strokes of change and time, of fates the fate! 'Tis only thou, O dire Necessity, Canst kindle everlasting love in me! * * * * O loftiest crown of Life! O shield of Fate! That no desire can reach to invocate, That ne'er defiled or sullied is by Nay, Eternal Yea of life, for e'er am I thy Yea: For I love thee, Eternity!

FRAGMENTS OF DIONYSUS-DITHYRAMBS

(1882-88)

SPEECHES, PARABLES, AND SIMILES

3 My home's in the highlands, For the highlands I yearn not, I raise not mine eyes aloft: I am one that looks downward, One that must bless,—All blessers look downward. 11 Thus I began, I unlearned all self-pity! 13 Not in shattering idols, But in shattering the idol-worshipper in thee, Consisted thy valour. 14 See, there stand Those heavy cats of granite, Those old, old Values. Woe is me! How overthrow them? * * * * Scratching cats, With paws that are fettered, There they sit And their glance is poison. 17 A lightning-flash became my wisdom: With sword of adamant it clove me every darkness! 19 A thought that still Flows hot, like lava: But all streams of lava Build a fortress around them, And every thought finally Oppresses itself with laws. 20 Such is my will: And since 'tis my will, All goes as I wish— That was my final wisdom: I willed what I must, And thus I forced every "must,"— Since then has been for me no "must." 23 Deceit Is war's whole art The fox's skin Is my secret shirt of mail 25 We of the new underworld Grub for new treasures. Godless it seemed to the ancients To disturb the earth's bowels for treasures And once more this godlessness revives, Hear ye not earth's bowels thunder? 28 Looking for love and finding masks, Finding accursed masks and having to break them! 29 Do I love you? Yes, as the rider loves his steed, That carryeth him to his goal. 30 His pity is cruel, His loving hand-clasp bruises, Give not a giant your hand! 31 Ye fear me? Ye fear the taut-strung bow? Ye fear a man might set his arrow to the bow? 33 I am naught but a word-maker. What matter words? What matter I? 34 Ah, my friends, Whither has flown all that is called "good"? Whither all good people? Whither the innocence of all these falsehoods? I call all good, Leaves and grass, happiness, blessing, and rain. 35 Not through his sins and greatest follies. Through his perfection I suffered, As I suffered most from men.[1] 36 "Man is evil." So spake the wisest For my consolement. 37 And only when I to myself am a burden Do ye fall heavy upon me! 38 Too soon, already I laugh again: For a foe 'tis easy To make me amends. 39 Gentle am I towards man and chance; Gentle with all men, and even with grasses: A spot of sunshine on winter curtains, Moist with tenderness, A thawing wind to snow-bound souls: * * * * Proud-minded towards trifling Gains, where I see the huckster's long finger, 'Tis aye my pleasure To be bamboozled: Such is the bidding of my fastidious taste. 40 A strange breath breathes and spits at me, Am I a mirror, that straightway is clouded? 41 Little people, Confiding, open-hearted, But low-built portals, Where only the low of stature can enter. * * * * How can I get through the city-gate Who had forgotten to live among dwarfs? 42 My wisdom was like to the sun, I longed to give them light, But I only deceived them. The sun of my wisdom Blinded the eyes Of these poor bats.... 43 Blacker and eviller things didst thou see than ever a seer did: Through the revels of Hell no sage had ever journeyed. 44 Back! on my heels too closely ye follow! Back! lest my wisdom should tread on you, crush you! 45 "He goes to hell who goes thy ways!" So be it I to my hell I'll pave the way myself with well-made maxims. 46 Your God, you tell me, Is a God of love? The sting of conscience A sting from God? A sting of love? 48 They chew gravel, They lie on their bellies Before little round things, They adore all that falleth not down— These last servants of God Believers (in reality)! 50 They made their God out of nothing, What wonder if now he is naught? 51 Ye loftier men! There have once been More thoughtful times, more reflective, Than is our to-day and to-morrow. 52 Our time is like a sick woman— Let her but shriek, rave, scold, And break the tables and dishes! 54 Ye mount? Is it true that ye mount, Ye loftier men? Are ye not, pray, Like to a ball Sped to the heights By the lowest that's in you? Do ye not flee from yourselves, O ye climbers? 55 All that you thought You had to despise, Where you only renounced! 56 All men repeat the refrain! No, no, and thrice say No! What's all this yap-yap talk of heaven? We would not enter the kingdom of heaven, The kingdom of earth shall be ours? 57 The will redeemeth, He that has nothing to do In a Nothing finds food for trouble. 58 You cannot endure it more, Your tyrannous destiny, Love it—you're given no choice! 59 These alone free us from woes (Choose now I) Sudden death Or long-drawn-out love. 60 Of death we are sure, So why not be merry? 61 The worst of pleas I have hidden from you—that life grew tedious! Throw it away, that ye find it again to your taste! 62 Lonely days, Ye must walk on valorous feet! 63 Loneliness Plants naught, it ripens.... And even then you must have the sun for your friend. 64 Once more must ye plunge in the throng—In the throng ye grow hard and smooth. Solitude withers And lastly destroys.— 65 When on the hermit comes the great fear; When he runs and runs And knows not whither; When the storms roar behind And the lightning bears witness against him, And his cavern breeds spectres And fills him with dread. 67 Throw thy pain in the depths, Man, forget! Man, forget! Divine is the art of forgetting! Wouldst fly? Wouldst feel at home in the heights? Throw thy heaviest load in the sea! Here is the sea, hurl thyself in the sea! Divine is the art of forgetting! 69 Look forward, never look back! We sink to the depths If we peer ever into the depths. 70 Beware, beware Of warning the reckless! Thy warning will drive them To leap into every abyss! 71 Why hurled he himself from the heights? What led him astray? His pity for all that is lowly led him astray, And now he lies there, broken, useless, and cold. 72 Whither went he? Who knows? We only know that he sank. A star went out in the desolate void, And lone was the void. 73 What we have not But need, We must take. And so a good conscience I took. 74 Who is there that could bestow right upon thee? So take thy right! 75 O ye waves, Wondrous waves, are ye wroth with me? Do ye raise me your crests in wrath? With my rudder I smite Your folly full square. This bark ye yourselves To immortal life will carry along. 77 When no new voice was heard, Ye made from old words A law: When life grows stark, there shoots up the law. 78 What none can refute Ye say must be true? Oh, ye innocents! 79 Art thou strong? Strong as an ass? Strong as God? Art thou proud? So proud as to flaunt Unashamed thy conceit? 80 Beware, And ne'er beat the drum Of thy destiny I Go out of the way From all pom-pom of fame! * * * * Be not known too soon! Be one that has hoarded renown! 81 Wilt thou grasp at the thorns? Thy fingers must pay. Grasp at a poniard. 85 Be a tablet of gold, They will grave upon thee In golden script. 86 Upright he stands With more sense of "justice" In his outermost toe Than I have in all my head. A virtue-monster Mantled in white. 87 Already he mimics himself, Already weary he grows, Already he seeks the paths he has trod— Who of late still loved all tracks untrodden! Secretly burnt— Not for his faith, Rather because he had lost the heart To find new faith. 88 Too long he sat in the cage, That runaway! Too long he dreaded A gaoler! Timorous now he goeth his ways, All things make him to stumble— The shadow e'en of a stick makes him to stumble. 89 Ye chambers smoky and musty, Ye cages and narrow hearts, How could your spirit be free? 90 Narrow souls! Huckster-souls! When money leaps into the box The soul leaps into it too![2] 92 Are ye women, That ye wish to suffer From that which ye love? 99 They are cold, these men of learning! Would that a lightning-flash might strike their food, And their mouths could learn to eat fire! 101 Your false love For the past, A love for the graves of the dead, Is a theft from life That steals all the future. * * * * An antiquary Is a craftsman of dead things, Who lives among coffins and skeletons. 103 Only the poet who can lie Wilfully, skilfully, Can tell the truth. 104 Our chase after truth, Is't a chase after happiness? 105 Truth Is a woman, no better, Cunning in her shame: Of what she likes best She will know naught, And covers her face.... To what doth she yield But to violence? Violence she needs. Be hard, ye sages! Ye must compel her, That shamefaced Truth.... For her happiness She needs constraint—She is a woman, no better. 106 We thought evil of each other? We were too distant, But now in this tiny hut, Pinned to one destiny, How could we still be foes? We must needs love those Whom we cannot escape. 107 Love thy foe, Let the robber rob thee: The woman hears and—does it. 110 A proud eye With silken curtains, Seldom clear, Honours him that may see it unveiled. 111 Sluggard eyes That seldom love— But when they love, the levin flashes As from shafts of gold Where a dagger keeps guard at the treasure of love. 117 They are crabs, for whom I have no fellow-feeling. Grasp them, they pinch you; Leave them alone, and they walk backward. 119 Crooked go great rivers and men, Crooked, but turned to their goal; That is their highest courage, They dreaded not crooked paths. 121 Wouldst catch them? Then speak to them As to stray sheep: "Your path, your path You have lost!" They follow all That flatter them so: "What? had we a path?" Each whispers the other: "It really seems that we have a path."

[The numbering given corresponds to that of the original, several fragments having been omitted.—TR.]