Page 61 of 101
O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou now stand forth, a vine with swelling udders and full clusters of brown golden grapes:—
—Filled and weighted by thy happiness, waiting from superabundance, and yet ashamed of thy waiting.
O my soul, there is nowhere a soul which could be more loving and more comprehensive and more extensive! Where could future and past be closer together than with thee?
O my soul, I have given thee everything, and all my hands have become empty by thee:—and now! Now sayest thou to me, smiling and full of melancholy: “Which of us oweth thanks?—
—Doth the giver not owe thanks because the receiver received? Is bestowing not a necessity? Is receiving not—pitying?”—
O my soul, I understand the smiling of thy melancholy: thine over-abundance itself now stretcheth out longing hands!
Thy fulness looketh forth over raging seas, and seeketh and waiteth: the longing of over-fulness looketh forth from the smiling heaven of thine eyes!
And verily, O my soul! Who could see thy smiling and not melt into tears? The angels themselves melt into tears through the over-graciousness of thy smiling.
Thy graciousness and over-graciousness, is it which will not complain and weep: and yet, O my soul, longeth thy smiling for tears, and thy trembling mouth for sobs.
“Is not all weeping complaining? And all complaining, accusing?” Thus speakest thou to thyself; and therefore, O my soul, wilt thou rather smile than pour forth thy grief—
—Than in gushing tears pour forth all thy grief concerning thy fulness, and concerning the craving of the vine for the vintager and vintage-knife!
But wilt thou not weep, wilt thou not weep forth thy purple melancholy, then wilt thou have to SING, O my soul!—Behold, I smile myself, who foretell thee this:
—Thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until all seas turn calm to hearken unto thy longing,—
—Until over calm longing seas the bark glideth, the golden marvel, around the gold of which all good, bad, and marvellous things frisk:—
—Also many large and small animals, and everything that hath light marvellous feet, so that it can run on violet-blue paths,—
—Towards the golden marvel, the spontaneous bark, and its master: he, however, is the vintager who waiteth with the diamond vintage-knife,—
—Thy great deliverer, O my soul, the nameless one—for whom future songs only will find names! And verily, already hath thy breath the fragrance of future songs,—
—Already glowest thou and dreamest, already drinkest thou thirstily at all deep echoing wells of consolation, already reposeth thy melancholy in the bliss of future songs!—
O my soul, now have I given thee all, and even my last possession, and all my hands have become empty by thee:—THAT I BADE THEE SING, behold, that was my last thing to give!
That I bade thee sing,—say now, say: WHICH of us now—oweth thanks?— Better still, however: sing unto me, sing, O my soul! And let me thank thee!—
Thus spake Zarathustra.
“Into thine eyes gazed I lately, O Life: gold saw I gleam in thy night-eyes,—my heart stood still with delight:
—A golden bark saw I gleam on darkened waters, a sinking, drinking, reblinking, golden swing-bark!
At my dance-frantic foot, dost thou cast a glance, a laughing, questioning, melting, thrown glance:
Twice only movedst thou thy rattle with thy little hands—then did my feet swing with dance-fury.—
My heels reared aloft, my toes they hearkened,—thee they would know: hath not the dancer his ear—in his toe!
Unto thee did I spring: then fledst thou back from my bound; and towards me waved thy fleeing, flying tresses round!
Away from thee did I spring, and from thy snaky tresses: then stoodst thou there half-turned, and in thine eye caresses.
With crooked glances—dost thou teach me crooked courses; on crooked courses learn my feet—crafty fancies!
I fear thee near, I love thee far; thy flight allureth me, thy seeking secureth me:—I suffer, but for thee, what would I not gladly bear!
For thee, whose coldness inflameth, whose hatred misleadeth, whose flight enchaineth, whose mockery—pleadeth:
—Who would not hate thee, thou great bindress, inwindress, temptress, seekress, findress! Who would not love thee, thou innocent, impatient, wind-swift, child-eyed sinner!
Whither pullest thou me now, thou paragon and tomboy? And now foolest thou me fleeing; thou sweet romp dost annoy!
I dance after thee, I follow even faint traces lonely. Where art thou? Give me thy hand! Or thy finger only!
Here are caves and thickets: we shall go astray!—Halt! Stand still! Seest thou not owls and bats in fluttering fray?
Thou bat! Thou owl! Thou wouldst play me foul? Where are we? From the dogs hast thou learned thus to bark and howl.
Thou gnashest on me sweetly with little white teeth; thine evil eyes shoot out upon me, thy curly little mane from underneath!
This is a dance over stock and stone: I am the hunter,—wilt thou be my hound, or my chamois anon?
Now beside me! And quickly, wickedly springing! Now up! And over!—Alas! I have fallen myself overswinging!
Oh, see me lying, thou arrogant one, and imploring grace! Gladly would I walk with thee—in some lovelier place!
—In the paths of love, through bushes variegated, quiet, trim! Or there along the lake, where gold-fishes dance and swim!
Thou art now a-weary? There above are sheep and sun-set stripes: is it not sweet to sleep—the shepherd pipes?
Thou art so very weary? I carry thee thither; let just thine arm sink! And art thou thirsty—I should have something; but thy mouth would not like it to drink!—
—Oh, that cursed, nimble, supple serpent and lurking-witch! Where art thou gone? But in my face do I feel through thy hand, two spots and red blotches itch!
I am verily weary of it, ever thy sheepish shepherd to be. Thou witch, if I have hitherto sung unto thee, now shalt THOU—cry unto me!
To the rhythm of my whip shalt thou dance and cry! I forget not my whip?—Not I!”—
2.
Then did Life answer me thus, and kept thereby her fine ears closed:
“O Zarathustra! Crack not so terribly with thy whip! Thou knowest surely that noise killeth thought,—and just now there came to me such delicate thoughts.
