| You have sought me breathlessly,
|
| longed for my voice and countenance;
|
| your strong pleadings have my sympathy.
|
| Now I am here!—What pitiable terror
|
490
| seizes you, you superman? Where is the outcry of your soul,
|
| where the breast that built its inward world
|
| and bore and fostered it and swelled with joyful tremor,
|
| intent on rising to the level of the spirits?
|
| Where are you, Faust, whose voice rang out,
|
| who forced himself on me with all his might?
|
| Are you he who at my very exhalation
|
| shivers to his depths,
|
| a frightened, cringing worm?
|
| You will never conquer it unless you feel it,
|
| unless a surging from your soul,
|
| a primal, joyful energy
|
| compels the heart of all your listeners.
|
| Go sit down and paste your words together,
|
| concoct a stew from morsels left by others
|
540
| and try to get some feeble flames
|
| from your puny heap of ashes!
|
| And if your palate craves for this,
|
| you may have apes and infants stand in awe,
|
| but you’ll never move another’s heart
|
| unless your own pours forth its energy.
|
| Go seek advancement honorably.
|
| Don’t be a jingling fool!
|
550
| Clear thinking and some honesty
|
| need little art for their delivery.
|
| And once you speak in earnest,
|
| must you still hunt for words?
|
| The tinseled glittering phrases
|
| with which one crimps the shredded bits of thought
|
| are lifeless like a misty exhalation
|
| that blows through withered autumn leaves.
|
| Oh yes, a journey to the stars!
|
| My friend, the days of history
|
| make up a book with seven seals.
|
| What you call the spirit of an age
|
| is in reality the spirit of those men
|
| in which their time’s reflected.
|
580
| And what you see is mostly misery,
|
| the sight of which will make you run away.
|
| Pails of garbage and heaps of trash,
|
| at best a staged enactment of high history
|
| with excellent pragmatic maxims
|
| suitable for puppets.
|
| Oh yes! They like to call it knowledge.
|
| Who can give the child its rightful name?
|
590
| Those few who gained a share of understanding,
|
| who foolishly unlocked their hearts,
|
| their pent-up feelings, and their visions to the rabble,
|
| have always ended on the cross and pyre.
|
| Forgive me, friend, the night is well advanced,
|
| we must suspend our conversation.
|
| Should such a human voice intrude
|
| when spirits held me in their spell?
|
| Alas, this once you have my gratitude,
|
| you smallest of all sons of the earth.
|
610
| You snatched me from despondency
|
| which threatened ruin to my senses.
|
| Ah! the titanic spirit’s visitation
|
| made me gaze upon my dwarfish self.
|
| I, the godhead’s image, who thought myself
|
| close to the mirror of eternal truth,
|
| and stripped of my mortality,
|
| saw Heaven’s light and clarity reflect on me.
|
| I, more than Cherub, with unbounded power
|
| presumed to course through Nature’s arteries,
|
620
| to create and live the life of a divinity—
|
| now I must do penance without measure;
|
| one thunder-word has swept me off to nothingness.
|
| I can’t withstand comparison with you!
|
| If I possessed the strength to draw you near,
|
| I wanted strength to hold you close to me.
|
| In that blessed, fleeting moment
|
| I felt myself so small, so great—
|
| you thrust me from you cruelly
|
| into man’s uncertain destiny.
|
630
| Who will teach me? What must I shun?
|
| Shall I obey my inward yearning?
|
| Alas, our deeds as much as our sorrows
|
| cramp the course of our waking days.
|
640
| Once Imagination on her daring flight
|
| reached boldly for eternity, but now
|
| she deems a narrow chamber quite sufficient,
|
| as every joy is foundering in the whirls of time.
|
| Care nesting deep within the heart
|
| will quickly wreak her secret pangs.
|
| She sways and claws and dims our peace and joy
|
| and never fails to don new masks,
|
| as a homestead or as wife and child,
|
| or else she shows herself as water, fire, poison, knife.
|
650
| You dread the blows that do not strike
|
| and you lament the things you never lose.
|
| I am not like the gods—I feel it deeply now.
|
| I am the worm that burrows in the dust
|
| and, seeking sustenance in the dust,
|
| is crushed and buried by a wanderer’s heel.
|