The Joyful Wisdom ("La Gaya Scienza"). Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
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are rare!
38.
The Pious One Speaks.
God loves us, for he made us, sent us here!—
"Man hath made God!" ye subtle ones reply.
His handiwork he must hold dear,
And what he made shall he deny?
There sounds the devil's halting hoof, I fear.
39.
In Summer.
In sweat of face, so runs the screed,
We e'er must eat our bread,
Yet wise physicians if we heed
"Eat naught in sweat," 'tis said.
The dog-star's blinking: what's his need?
What tells his blazing sign?
In sweat of face (so runs his screed)
We're meant to drink our wine!
40.
Without Envy.
His look bewrays no envy: and ye laud him?
He cares not, asks not if your throng applaud him!
He has the eagle's eye for distance far,
He sees you not, he sees but star on star!
41.
Heraclitism.
Brethren, war's the origin
Of happiness on earth:
Powder-smoke and battle-din
Witness friendship's birth!
Friendship means three things, you know—
Kinship in luckless plight,
Equality before the foe
Freedom—in death's sight!
42.
Maxim of the Over-refined.
"Rather on your toes stand high
Than crawl upon all fours,
Rather through the keyhole spy
Than through open doors!"
43.
Exhortation.
Renown you're quite resolved to earn?
My thought about it
Is this: you need not fame, must learn
To do without it!
44.
Thorough.
I an Inquirer? No, that's not my calling
Only I weigh a lot—I'm such a lump!—
And through the waters I keep falling, falling,
Till on the ocean's deepest bed I bump.
45.
The Immortals.
"To-day is meet for me, I come to-day,"
Such is the speech of men foredoomed to stay.
"Thou art too soon," they cry, "thou art too late,"
What care the Immortals what the rabble say?
46.
Verdicts of the Weary.
The weary shun the glaring sun, afraid,
And only care for trees to gain the shade.
47.
Descent.
"He sinks, he falls," your scornful looks portend:
The truth is, to your level he'll descend.
His Too Much Joy is turned to weariness,
His Too Much Light will in your darkness end.
48.
Nature Silenced. [5]
Around my neck, on chain of hair,
The timepiece hangs—a sign of care.
For me the starry course is o'er,
No sun and shadow as before,
No cockcrow summons at the door,
For nature tells the time no more!
Too many clocks her voice have drowned,
And droning law has dulled her sound.
49.
The Sage Speaks.
Strange to the crowd, yet useful to the crowd,
I still pursue my path, now sun, now cloud,
But always pass above the crowd!
50.
He lost his Head. …
She now has wit—how did it come her way?
A man through her his reason lost, they say.
His