To my old Friend, Peter Schlemihl.

Well! years and years have pass’d,—and lo! thy writing Comes to my hands again,—and, strange to say, I think of times when the world’s school, inviting Our early friendship, new before us lay;— Now I can laugh at foolish shame—delighting In thee, for I am old—my hair is grey,— And I will call thee friend, as then—not coldly, But proudly to the world—and claim thee boldly.

My dear, dear Friend! the cunning air hath led me Through paths less dark and less perplexed than thine, Struggling for blue, bright dawnings, have I sped me, But little, little glory has been mine. Yet can the Grey Man boast not that he had me Fast by my shadow! Nay! he must resign His claims on me,—my shadow’s mine. I boast it,— I had it from the first, and never lost it.

On me—though guiltless as a child—the throng Flung all their mockery of thy naked being,— And is the likeness then so very strong? They shouted for my shadow—which, though seeing, They swore they saw not—and, still bent on wrong, Said they were blind; and then put forth their glee in Peals upon peals of laughter! Well—we bear With patience—aye, with joy—the conscience clear.

And what—what is the Shadow? may I ask ye, Who am myself so wearyingly asked. Is it too high a problem, then, to task ye? And shall not the malignant world be tasked? The flights of nineteen thousand days unmask ye, They have brought wisdom—in whose trains I basked, And while I gave to shadows, being—saw Being, as shadows, from life’s scene withdraw.

Give me thy hand, Schlemihl—take mine, my friend: On, on,—we leave the future to the Grey Man, Careless about the world,—our hearts shall blend In firmer, stronger union—come away, man! We shall glide fast and faster towards life’s end. Aye! let them smile or scorn, for all they say, man, The tempests will be still’d that shake the deep, And we in part sleep our untroubled sleep.

ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO.

Berlin, August, 1834.