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.
[Footnote 1: Translated by Francis Bickley.]
[Footnote 2: On the title-page of a copy of _Joyful Wisdom,_ dedicated to Herr August Bungal.--TR.]
[Footnote 3: Translated by Francis Bickley.]
[Footnote 4: Translated by Francis Bickley.]
[Footnote 5: Probably written for Peter Gast, Nietzsche's faithful friend, and a musician whose "Southern" music Nietzsche admired.--TR.]
[Footnote 6: Translated by Francis Bickley.]
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.