Four Mystery Plays. Rudolf Steiner

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Four Mystery Plays - Rudolf Steiner


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what hath happened? All, that in mine eyes

      Stood forth revealed in its own naked Truth

      As purest life, brought death, my friend, to thee

      And slew thy spirit.

      Johannes:

      And slew thy spirit. Aye. ’Tis so indeed.

      What lifts thy soul to Heaven’s sun-kissed heights

      When through thy life it comes into mine own

      Thrusts my soul down, to death’s abysmal gloom.

      When in our friendship’s rosy-fingered dawn

      To this revealment thou didst lead me on,

      Which sheds its light into the darkened realms,

      Where human souls do enter every night,

      Bereft of conscious life, and where full oft

      Man’s being wanders erring: whilst the night

      Of Death makes mock at Life’s reality.

      And when thou didst reveal to me the truth

      Of life’s return, then did I know full well

      That I should grow to perfect spirit-man.

      Surely, it seemed, the artist’s clear keen eye,

      And certain touch of a creator’s hand,

      Would blossom for me through thy spirit’s fire

      And noble might. Full deep I breathed this fire

      Into my being; when—behold—it robbed

      The ebb and flow of all my spirit’s power.

      Remorselessly it drove out from my heart

      All faith in this our world. And now I reach

      A point where I no longer clearly see,

      Whether to doubt or whether to believe

      The revelation of the spirit-worlds.

      Nay more, I even lack the power to love

      That which in thee the spirit’s beauty shows.

      Maria:

      Alas! The years that pass have taught me this:

      That mine own way to live the spirit-life

      Doth change into its opposite, whene’er

      It penetrates another’s character.

      And I must also see how spirit-power

      Grows rich in blessing when, by other paths,

      It pours itself into the souls of men.

      (Enter Philia, Astrid, and Luna.)

      It floweth forth in speech, and in these words

      Lies power to raise to realms celestial

      Man’s common mode of thinking; and create

      A world of joy, where erstwhile brooded gloom.

      Aye, it can change the spirit’s shallowness

      To depths of earnest feeling; and can cast

      Man’s character in sure and noble mould.

      And I—yes, I am altogether filled

      By just this spirit-power, and must behold

      The pain and desolation that it brings

      To other hearts, when from mine own it pours.

      Philia:

      It seemed as though the voices of some choir

      (Enter Prof. Capesius and Dr. Strader.)

      Mingled together, uttering manifold

      Conceptions and opinions, each his own,

      Of these who formed our recent gathering.

      Full many harmonies there were indeed,

      But also many a harsh-toned dissonance.

      Maria:

      Ah, when the words and speech of many men

      Present themselves in such wise to the soul,

      It seems as though man’s very prototype

      Stood centred there in secret mystery:

      Become through many souls articulate,

      As in the rainbow’s arch pure Light itself

      Grows visible in many-coloured rays.

      Capesius:

      Through changing scenes of many centuries

      We wandered year on year in earnest search;

      Striving to fathom deep the living force

      That dwelt within the souls of those who sought

      To probe and scan the fundaments of being,

      And set before man’s soul the goals of life.

      We thought that in the depths of our own souls

      We lived the higher powers of thought itself;

      And thus could solve the riddles set by Fate.

      We felt we had, or seemed at least to feel,

      Sure basis in the logic of our mind

      When new experiences crossed our path

      Questioning there the judgment of our soul.

      Yet now such basis wavers, when amazed

      I hear today, as I have heard before,

      The mode of thought taught by these people here.

      And more and more uncertain do I grow,

      When I perceive, how powerfully in life

      This mode of thought doth work. Full many a day

      Have I spent thus, thinking how I might shape

      Time’s riddles as they solved themselves to me

      In words, that hearts might grasp and trembling feel.

      Happy indeed was I, if I could fill

      Only the smallest corner of some soul

      Amongst my audience with the warmth of life.

      And oftentimes it seemed success was mine,

      Nor would I make complaint of fruitless days.

      Yet all results of teaching thus could lead

      Only to recognition of this truth

      So loved and emphasized by men of deeds,

      That in the clash of life’s realities,

      Thoughts are dim shadows, nothing more nor less:

      They may indeed wing life’s creative powers

      To due fruition, but they cannot shape

      And mould our life themselves. So have I judged

      And with this modest comment was content:

      Where pale thoughts only work, all life is lamed

      And likewise all that joins itself to life.

      More potent than the ripest form of words,

      However art might weave therein her spell,

      Seemed nature’s gift, man’s


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