The Joyful Wisdom ("La Gaya Scienza"). Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

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      The Neighbour.

      Too nigh, my friend my joy doth mar,

      I'd have him high above and far,

      Or how can he become my star?

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      The Disguised Saint.

      Lest we for thy bliss should slay thee,

      In devil's wiles thou dost array thee,

      Devil's wit and devil's dress.

      But in vain! Thy looks betray thee

      And proclaim thy holiness.

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      The Slave.

      A. He stands and listens: whence his pain?

      What smote his ears? Some far refrain?

      Why is his heart with anguish torn?

      B. Like all that fetters once have worn,

      He always hears the clinking—chain!

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      The Lone One.

      I hate to follow and I hate to lead.

      Obedience? no! and ruling? no, indeed!

      Wouldst fearful be in others' sight?

      Then e'en thyself thou must affright:

      The people but the Terror's guidance heed.

      I hate to guide myself, I hate the fray.

      Like the wild beasts I'll wander far afield.

      In Error's pleasing toils I'll roam

      Awhile, then lure myself back home,

      Back home, and—to my self-seduction yield.

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      Seneca et hoc Genus omne.

      They write and write (quite maddening me)

      Their "sapient" twaddle airy,

      As if 'twere primum scribere,

      Deinde philosophari.

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      Ice.

      Yes! I manufacture ice:

      Ice may help you to digest:

      If you had much to digest,

      How you would enjoy my ice!

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      Youthful Writings.

      My wisdom's A and final O

      Was then the sound that smote mine ear.

      Yet now it rings no longer so,

      My youth's eternal Ah! and Oh!

      Is now the only sound I hear.^[4]

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      Foresight.

      In yonder region travelling, take good care!

      An hast thou wit, then be thou doubly ware!

      They'll smile and lure thee; then thy limbs they'll tear:

      Fanatics' country this where wits are rare!

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      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.

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      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!

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