küchen wände farbig gestalten

you come back, wavering shapes, out of the pastin which you first appeared to clouded eyes. should i attempt this time to hold you fast?does this old dream still thrill a heart so wise? you crowd? you press? have, then, your way at last.as from the mist around me you arise; my breast is stirred and feels with youthful painthe magic breath that hovers round your train. with you return pictures of joyous days,shadows that i once loved again draw near; like a primeval tale, half lost in haze,first love and friendship also reappear; grief is renewed, laments retrace the mazeof life's strange labyrinthian career, recalling dear ones who, by fortune's treasonrobbed of fair hours, passed before my season. they will not hear me as i sing these songs,the parted souls to whom i sang the first;

gone is that first response, in vain one longsfor friendly crowds that have long been dispersed. my grief resounds to strangers, unknown throngsapplaud it, and my anxious heart would burst. whoever used to praise my poem's worth,if they still live, stray scattered through the earth. and i am seized by long forgotten yearningfor that kingdom of spirits, still and grave; to flowing song i see my feelings turning,as from aeolian harps, wave upon wave; a shudder grips me, tear on tear falls burning,soft grows my heart, once so severe and brave; what i possess, seems far away to me,and what is gone becomes reality. you two, that often stood by mein former times of trouble, say: what are the chances for our play,if we perform in germany?

to please crowds is what i desire most,for they not only live, but let live, too. the boards are up, and one sees post by post,and everyone expects a feast from you. i see them sit there with wide open eyes,relaxed and hoping for a great surprise. i know quite well how people are impressed,but i have never been in such a spot: while they are not accustomed to the best,they certainly have read a lot. how go about it, so it will seem new,significant, and pleasing to them, too? of course, i like to see the crowded laneswhen streams of people rush to our place and, with tremendous and recurrent pains,press, eager, through the narrow gate of grace; when it is day, not even four,they fight and push each other, coax and vex,

and, as in famine time, for bread at baker's door,to get a ticket almost break their necks. this wonder works upon such different menthe poet only-friend, do it again! don't speak to me of crowds at whose mere sightthe spirit flees us! that you could confine the surging rabble that draws us with mightto compromise our every great design! lead me to heaven's silence, whose delightthe poet only feels; let love combine with friendship to create and nursewith godlike hands the gift of verse! what deep in our breast was thus inspired,what shy lips babbled in a quiet hour, clumsy perhaps, and rarely as desired,is swallowed by a savage moment's power. and years may pass before it has acquiredits perfect form and opens like a flower.

glitter is coined to meet the moment's rage;the genuine lives on from age to age. from age to age! what silly, fruitless chat!posterity! if i would talk of that, who would amuse the folks today?that's what they want, give them their fare! the presence of a decent lad out thereamounts to something, i should say. who knows the art of pleasant self-expressionneed not resent the popular decree; he thrives on widespread appreciation,and moves the mass more certainly. so be exemplary in every fashion,give reign to many-throated fantasy, to reason, thought, and sentiment, and passionbut, mark it well, not without foolery! above all, let us have a lot of action!they want a show, that gives them satisfaction.

the more you can enact before their eyes,the greater is your popular acclaim; and if the crowd can gape in dumb surprise,you gain a celebrated name. the mass is overwhelmed only by masses,each likes some part of what has been presented. he that gives much, gives something to all classes,and everybody will go home contented. you have a piece, give it in pieces then!write a ragout, you have a pen; it's easy to invent, and easy to unroll.what good is it, if you construct a whole? the public takes it all apart again. you do not feel how bad it is to please the rabble,how artists spurn such craft and cheap applause. the manner of the hacks that dabblehas furnished you, i see, with laws.

i am not hurt by your invective:a man who wants to be effective must first make sure his tools are good.you are like one who would split moldy wood: do not forget for whom you write!they come when they are bored at night, or gorged on roasts and relish, spice and capers,and - this is the most wretched plight- some come right after having read the papers.they come to us distracted, as to a masquerade, propelled by nothing but curiosity;their dresses and their jewels, the ladies would parade, and act without a salary.why do you dream on your poetic height? look at your patrons without awe!what gives a crowded house delight? one half is cold, one half is raw.after the play, one hopes to play at cards,

another for an orgy in a harlot's bed.with such an aim, you silly bards, why plague the muses? co ahead,simply give more and more, and always something more, that never fails - and add some dark allusion:try only to create confusion; to satisfy men is a chore.-what seizes you? an ecstasy or pain? go hence and seek yourself another slave!the noblest right the poet ought to waive? the right of man that nature granted him,and waste it frivolously for your gain? how does he move all hearts, or reignover the elements like cherubim? is it not, streaming forth, the concord of his artthat carries back the world into his heart? when nature forces the unending threadupon her spindle in indifferent tread?

when all the living lack the least rapport,each playing his disgruntled part- who scans the selfsame lines as they unroll,bestowing life, and quickening, rhythmic motion? who calls each single voice to celebrate the whole,so all may blend in musical devotion? who creates tempests to show passion's powers?the last red clouds, to grace the mind's repose? who scatters all the spring's most fragrant flowerswherever his beloved goes? who twines green leaves, worthless as common clods,to wreaths of honor that stay always fresh? secures olympus and unites the gods?the strength of man, in poets become flesh. then use your fair strength skillfully:the business of poetry conduct as if it were a love affair!one meets by chance, one feels one's way, stays there,

and by and by, one is entangled;happiness grows, then it is mangled, first rapture comes, then grief and care advance:before you know what happened, it is a long romance. give us a play with such emotion!reach into life, it is a teeming ocean! all live in it, not many know it well,and where you seize it, it exerts a spell in motley pictures little clarity,much error and a spark of verity- i tell you, it is brews like thesethat never fail to edify, and please. the flower of our youth will come to readand hear whatever you may be revealing, and every tender mind will come to feedupon your work its melancholy feeling; one thrills to this, one finds that in your art,each sees precisely what is in his heart.

the young are still prepared to weep or show delight,they still respect your verve, and laugh at dreamlike pranks, those who have ceased to grow, find nothing right;those who are growing still, will not spare thanks. then give me back, my friend, the timeswhen i myself was also growing and when a well of rushing rhymesrenewed itself as it was flowing; the world was shrouded in a haze,the bud still promised wondrous powers, and i would break a thousand flowerswith which all valleys were ablaze. nothing i had, and yet profusion:the lust for truth, the pleasure in illusion. give back the passions unabated,that deepest joy, alive with pain, love's power and the strength of hatred,give back my youth to me again.

you may need youth, my friend, in battles or in raids,when cannons roar and soldiers press you, or when adorable young maidsput their arms round you and caress you; or when the wreath of honor glancesfar from the goal of a long run; or when after impassioned dances,one drinks and toasts the rising sun. to raise the poet's well-known voicewith grace in mankind's graceless choir, to seek the goal of one's own choicewith blessed erring-that, good sire, is the sweet duty of the old,and we respect you when you play your part. age does not make us childish, as we're told,it merely finds we are still young at heart. we have enough analyses,now i am eager to see deeds;

while you exchange your pleasantries,another's useful plan succeeds. your talk of moods kindles no flame,the waverer always waits and loses; if you are poets as you claim,then prove that you command the muses. you know just what we need, i think:we want a potent brew to drink. concoct it now without delay!tomorrow we still miss what is not done today; there is no day that one should skip,but one should seize without distrust the possible with iron grip;once grasped, one will not let it slip, but one works on because one must.you know, the stage in germany lets each do what he wants to do;tonight, therefore, i say to you,

do not spare our machinery.employ the sun and moon, do not hold back! use all the stars we have in stock;of water, fire, walls of rock, and beasts and birds there is no lack.in our narrow house of boards, bestride the whole creation, far and wide;move thoughtfully, but fast as well, from heaven through the world to hell. the sun intones, in ancient tourneywith brother spheres, a rival air; and his predestinated journey,he closes with a thundrous blare. his sight, as none can comprehend it,gives strength to angels; the array of works, unfathomably splendid,is glorious as on the first day.

unfathomably swiftly speeded,earth's pomp revolves in whirling flight, as eden's brightness is succeededby deep and dread-inspiring night; in mighty torrents foams the oceanagainst the rocks with roaring song- in ever-speeding spheric motion,both rock and sea are swept along. and rival tempests roar and ravagefrom sea to land, from land to sea, and, raging, form a chain of savage,deeply destructive energy... there flames a flashing devastationto clear the thunder's crashing way; yet, lord, thy herald's admirationis for the mildness of thy day. the sight, as none can comprehend it,gives strength to angels; thy array

since you, oh lord, have once again drawn near,and ask how we have been, and are so genial, and since you used to like to see me here,you see me, too, as if i were a menial. i cannot speak as nobly as your staff,though by this circle here i shall be spurned: my pathos would be sure to make you laugh,were laughing not a habit you've unlearned. of suns and worlds i know nothing to say;i only see how men live in dismay. the small god of the world will never change his waysand is as whimsical - as on the first of days. his life might be a bit more fun,had you not given him that spark of heaven's sun; he calls it reason and employs it, resoluteto be more brutish than is any brute. he seems to me, if you don't mind, your grace,like a cicada of the long-legged race,

that always flies. and, flying, springs,and in the grass the same old ditty sings; if only it were grass he could repose in!there is no trash he will not poke his nose in. can you not speak but to abuse?do you come only to accuse? does nothing on the earth seem to you right? no, lord. i find it still a rather sorry sight.man moves me to compassion, so wretched is his plight. i have no wish to cause him further woe. do you know faust? the doctor? aye; my servant.

lo! he serves you most peculiarly, i think.not earthly are the poor fool's meat and drink. his spirit's ferment drives him far,and he half knows how foolish is his quest: from heaven he demands the fairest star,and from the earth all joys that he thinks best; and all that's near and all that's farcannot soothe the upheaval in his breast. though now he serves me but confusedly,i shall soon lead him where the vapor clears. the gardener knows, however small the tree,that bloom and fruit adorn its later years. what will you bet? you'll lose him yet to me,if you will graciously connive that i may lead him carefully. as long as he may be alive,so long you shall not be prevented.

man errs as long as he will strive. be thanked for that; i've never been contentedto waste my time upon the dead. i far prefer full cheeks, a youthful curly-head.when corpses come, i have just left the house i feel as does the cat about the mouse. enough - i grant that you may try to clasp him,withdraw this spirit from his primal source and lead him down, if you can grasp him,upon your own abysmal course- and stand abashed when you have to attest:a good man in his darkling aspiration remembers the right road throughout his quest. enough - he will soon reach his station;about my bet i have no hesitation,

and when i win, concede your stakeand let me triumph with a swelling breast: dust he shall eat, and that with zest,as my relation does, the famous snake.. appear quite free on that day, too;i never hated those who were like you: of all the spirits that negate.the knavish jester gives me least to do. for man's activity can easily abate,he soon prefers uninterrupted rest; to give him this companion hence seems bestwho roils and must as devil help create. but you, god's rightful sons, give voiceto all the beauty in which you rejoice; and that which ever works and lives and growsenfold you with fair bonds that love has wrought, and what in wavering apparition flowsthat fortify with everlasting thought.

i like to see the old man now and thenand try to be not too uncivil. it's charming in a noble squire whenhe speaks humanely with the very devil. i have, alas, studied philosophy,jurisprudence and medicine, too, and, worst of all, theologywith keen endeavor, through and through and here i am, for all my lore,the wretched fool i was before. called master of arts, and doctor to boot,for ten years almost i confute and up and down, wherever it goes,i drag my students by the nose- and see that for all our science and artwe can know nothing. it bums my heart. of course, i am smarter than all the shysters,the doctors, and teachers, and scribes, and christers;

no scruple nor doubt could make me ill,i am not afraid of the devil or hell but therefore i also lack all delight,do not fancy that i know anything right, do not fancy that i could teach or assertwhat would better mankind or what might convert. i also have neither money nor treasures,nor worldly honors or earthly pleasures; no dog would want to live longer this way! hence i have yielded to magic to see whether the spirit's mouth and mightwould bring some mysteries to light, that i need not with work and woego on to say what i don't know; that i might see what secret forcehides in the world and rules its course.

envisage the creative blazesinstead of rummaging in phrases. full lunar light, that you might starethe last time now on my despair! how often i've been waking hereat my oid desk till you appeared, and over papers, notes, and booksi caught, my gloomy friend, your looks. oh, that up on a mountain heighti could walk in your lovely light and float with spirits round caves and trees,weave in your twilight through the leas, cast dusty knowledge overboard,and bathe in dew until restored. still this old dungeon, still a mole!cursed be this moldy walled-in hole where heaven's lovely light must pass,and lose its luster, through stained glass.

confined with books, and every tomeis gnawed by worms, covered with dust, and on the walls, up to the dome,a smoky paper, spots of rust; enclosed by tubes and jars that breedmore dust, by instruments and soot, ancestral furniture to boot-that is your world! a world indeed! and need you ask why in your breastyour cramped heart throbs so anxiously? life's every stirring is oppressedby an unfathomed agony? instead of living nature whichgod made man for with holy breath, must stifles you, and every nicheholds skulls and skeletons and death. flee! out into the open land!and this book fun of mystery,

written in nostradamus' hand -is it not ample company? stars' orbits you will know; and bold,you learn what nature has to teach; your soul is freed, and you beholdthe spirits' words, the spirits' speech. though dry reflection might expoundthese holy symbols, it is dreary: you float, oh spirits, all around;respond to me, if you can hear me. what jubilation bursts out of this sightinto my senses - now i feel it flowing, youthful, a sacred fountain of delight,through every nerve, my veins are glowing. was it a god that made these symbols bethat soothe my feverish unrest, filling with joy my anxious breast,and with mysterious potency

make nature's hidden powers around me, manifest?am i a god? light grows this page - in these pure lines my eye can seecreative nature spread in front of me. but now i grasp the meaning of the sage:''the realm of spirits is not far away; your mind is closed, your heart is dead.rise, student, bathe without dismay in heaven's dawn your mortal head."all weaves itself into the whole, each living in the other's soul. how heaven's powers climb up and descend.passing the golden pails from hand to hand! bliss-scented, they are wingingthrough sky and earth - their singing is ringing through the world.what play!

yet but a play, however vast! where, boundless nature, can i hold you fast?and where you breasts? wells that sustain all life - the heaven and the earth are nursed.the wilted breast craves you in thirst- you well, you still - and i languish in vain? how different is the power of this sign! you, spirit of the earth, seem close to mine:i look and feel my powers growing, as if i'd drunk new wine i'm glowing,i feel a sudden courage, and should dare to plunge into the world, to bearall earthly grief, all earthly joy - compare with gales my strength,face shipwreck without care.

now there are clouds above the moon conceals her lightthe lamp dies down. it steams. red light rays dashabout my head - a chill blows from the vaulting domeand seizes me! i feel you near me, spirit i implored.reveal yourself! oh, how my heart is goredby never felt urges, and my whole body surges -my heart is yours; yours, too am i. you must. you must.though i should have to die who calls me?

vision of fright! with all your might you drew me near you have been sucking at my sphere,and now - i cannot bear your sight! you have implored me to appear,make known my voice, reveal my face; your soul's entreaty won my grace:here i am! what abject fear grasps you, oh superman!where is the soul's impassioned call? and where the breast thateven now had fashioned a world to bear and nurse within - that trembled thus,swollen with joy that it resembled us?

where are you, faust, whose voice pierced my domain,who surged against me with his might and main? could it be you who at my breath's slight shiverare to the depths of life aquiver, a miserably writhing worm? should i, phantom of fire, fly?it's i, it's faust; your peer am i! in the floods of life and creative stormto and fro i wave. weave eternally.and birth and grave, an eternal sea,a changeful strife, a glowing life:at the roaring loom of the ages i plod and fashion the life - giving garment of god.

you that traverse worlds without end,sedulous spirit, i feel close to you. peer of the spirit that you comprehendnot mine! not yours?whose then? i, image of the godhead!and not even yourst o death! my famulus - i know it wellmy fairest happiness destroyed! this wealth of visions i enjoyedthe dreary creeper must dispel! forgive! i hear your declamation;surely, you read a grecian tragedy? i'd profit from some work in this vocation,these days it can be used effectively. i have been told three times at leastthat a comedian could instruct a priest.

yes, when the priest is a comedian for all his te deum.as happens more often than one would own. ah, when one is confined to one's museumand sees the world on holidays alone, but from a distance, only on occasion,how can one guide it by persuasion? what you don't feel, you will not grasp by art,unless it wells out of your soul and with sheer pleasure takes control,compelling every listener's heart. but sit - and sit, and patch and knead,cook a ragout, reheat your hashes, blow at the sparks and try to breeda fire out of piles of ashes! children and apes may think it great,if that should titillate your gum, but from heart to heart you will never create.if from your heart it does not come.

yet much depends on the delivery;i still lack much; don't you agree? oh, let him look for honest gain!let him not be a noisy fool! all that makes sense you can explainwithout the tricks of any school. if you have anything to say,why juggle words for a display? your glittering rhet'ric, subtly disciplined,which for mankind thin paper garlands weaves, is as unwholesome as the foggy windthat blows in autumn through the wilted leaves. oh god, art is forever,and our life is brief. i fear that with my critical endeavormy head and heart may come to grief. how hard the scholars' means are to arraywith which one works up to the source;

before we have traversed but half the course,we wretched devils pass away. parchment - is that the sacred fountfrom which you drink to still your thirst forever? if your refreshment does not mount.from your own soul, you gain it never. forgiver it does seem so sublime,entering into the spirit of the time to see what wise men, who lived long ago, believed,till we at last have all the highest aims achieved. up to the stars - achieved indeed!my friend, the times that antecede our own are books safely protectedby seven seals. what spirit of the time you call, is but the scholars' spirit, after all,in which times past are now reflected.. in truth, it often is pathetic,and when one sees it, one would run away:

a garbage pail, perhaps a storage attic,at best a pompous moralistic play with wonderfully edifying quips,most suitable to come from puppets' lips. and yet the world! man's heart and spirit! oh,that everybody knew part of the same! the things that people claim to know!who dares to call the child by its true name? the few that saw something like this and, starry-eyedbut foolishly, with glowing hearts averred their feelings and their visions before the common herdhave at all times been burned and crucified. i beg you, friend, it is deep in the night;we must break off this interview. our conversation was so erudite,i should have liked to stay awake with you. yet easter comes tomorrow; then permitthat i may question you a bit.

most zealously i've studied matters great and small;though i know much, i should like to know all. hope never seems to leave those who affirm,the shallow minds that stick to must and mold they dig with greedy hands for goldand yet are happy if they find a worm. dare such a human voice be soundedwhere i was even now surrounded by spirits' might? and yet i thank you just this once,you, of all creatures the most wretched dunce. you tore me from despair that had surpassedmy mind and threatened to destroy my sense. alas, the apparition was so vastthat i felt dwarfed in impotence. i, image of the godhead, that beganto dream eternal truth was within reach, exulting on the heavens' brilliant beachas if i had stripped off the mortal man;

i, more than cherub, whose unbounded mightseemed even then to flow through nature's veins, shared the creative joys of god's domainspresumptuous hope for which i pay in pains: one word of thunder swept me from my height.i may no longer claim to be your peer: i had the power to attract you here,but to retain you lacked the might. in that moment of bliss, alack,in which i felt so small, so great, you, cruel one, have pushed me backinto uncertain human fate. who teaches me? what should i shun?should i give in to that obsession? not our sufferings only, the deeds that we have doneinhibit our life's progression. whatever noblest things the mind received,more and more foreign matter spoils the theme;

and when the good of this world is achieved,what's better seems an idle dream. that gave us our life, the noblest urgesare petrified in the earth's vulgar surges. where fantasy once rose in glorious flight,hopeful and bold to capture the sublime, it is content now with a narrow site,since joy on joy crashed on the rocks of time. deep in the heart there dwells relentless careand secretly infects us with despair; restless; she sways and poisons peace and joyshe always finds new masks she can employ: she may appear as house and home, as child and wife,as fire, water, poison, knife - what does not strike, still makes you quail,and what you never lose, for that you always wail. i am not like the gods! that was a painful thrust;i'm like the worm that burrows in the dust,

who, as he makes of dust his meager meal,is crushed and buried by a wanderer's heel is it not dust that stares from every rackand narrows down this vaulting den? this moths' world full of bric-a-bracin which i live as in a pen? here i should find for what i care?should i read in a thousand books, maybe, that men have always suffered everywhere,though now and then some man lived happily? why, hollow skull, do you grin like a faun?save that your brain, like mine, once in dismay searched for light day, but foundered in the heavy dawnand, craving truth, went wretchedly astray. you instruments, of course, can scorn and teasewith rollers, handles, cogs, and wheels: i found the gate,you were to be the keys;

although your webs are subtle,you cannot break the seals. mysterious in the light of day,nature, in veils, will not let us perceive her, and what she is unwilling to betray,you cannot wrest from her with thumbscrews, wheel, or lever. you ancient tools that rest upon the rack,unused by me, but used once by my sire, you ancient scroll that slowly has turned blackas my lamp on this desk gave off its smoky fire - far better had i squandered all of my wretched sharethan groan under this wretched load and thus address it! what from your fathers you received as heir,acquire if you would possess it. what is not used is but a load to bear;but if today creates it, we can use and bless it. yet why does this place over there attract my sight?why is that bottle as a magnet to my eyes?

why does the world seem suddenly so bright,as when in nightly woods one sees the moon arise? i welcome you, incomparable potion,which from your place i fetch now with devotion: in you i honor human wit and art.you essence from all slumber-bringing flowers, you extract of all subtly fatal powers,bare to your master your enticing heart! i look upon you, soothed are all my pains,i seize you now, and all my striving wanes, the spirit's tidal wave, now ebbs awayslowly i float into the open sea, the waves beneath me now seem gay and free,to other shores beckons another day. a fiery chariot floats on airy pinionscleaving the ether-tarry and descend! uncharted orbits call me, new dominionsof sheer creation, active without end.

this higher life, joys that no mortal won!you merit this - but now a worm, despairing? upon the mild light of the earthly sunturn, bold, your back! and with undaunted daring tear open the eternal portalspast which all creatures slink in silent dread. the time has come to prove by deeds that mortalshave as much dignity as any god, and not to tremble at that murky cavewhere fantasy condemns itself to dwell in agony. the passage bravewhose narrow mouth is lit by all the flames of hell; and take this step with cheerful resolution,though it involve the risk of utter dissolution. now you come down to me, pure crystal vase,emerge again out of your ancient case of which for many years i did not think.you glistened at my fathers' joyous feasts

and cheered the solemn-looking guests,when you were passed around for all to drink. the many pictures, glistening in the light,the drinker's duty rhyming to explain them, to scan your depths and in one draught to drain them,bring back to mind many a youthful night. there is no friend now to fulfill this duty,nor shall i exercise my wit upon your beauty. here is a juice that fast makes drunk and mute;with its brown flood it fills this crystal bowl, i brewed it and shall drink it wholeand offer this last drink with all my soul unto the morning as a festive high salute. christ is arisen.hail the meek-spirited whom the ill-merited,creeping, inherited

faults held in prison. what deeply humming strokes, what brilliant tonedraws from my lips the crystal bowl with power? has the time come, deep bells, when you make knownthe easter holiday's first holy hour? is this already, choirs, the sweet consoling hymnthat was first sung around his tomb by cherubim, confirming the new covenant? with myrrh, when bereaved.we had adorned him; we that believedlaid down and mourned him linen we twinedround the adored- returning, we cannot find.christ, our lord.

christ is arisen.blessed be the glorious one who victoriousover laborious trials has risen. why would you, heaven's tones, compelme gently to rise from my dust? resound where tenderhearted people dwell: although i hear the message,i lack all faith or trust; and faith's favorite child is miracle.for those far spheres. i should not dare to strive, from which these tidings come to me;and yet these chords, which i have known since infancy: call me now, too, back into life.once heaven's love rushed at me as a kiss

in the grave silence of the sabbath day,the rich tones of the bells, it seemed, had much to say, and every prayer brought impassioned bliss.an unbelievably sweet yearning drove me to roam through wood and lea,crying, and as my eyes were burning, i felt a new world grow in me. this song proclaimedthe spring feast's free delight, appealing to the gay games of youth-they plead:now memory entices me with childlike feeling back from the last, most solem deed.sound on, oh hymns of heaven, sweet and mild! my tears are flowing; earth,take back your child! has the o'ervaulted oneburst from his prison,

the living-exalted onegloriously risen, is in this joyous birthzest for creation near - oh, on the breast of earthwe are to suffer here. he left his ownpining in sadness; alas, we bemoan,master, your gladness. christ is arisenout of corruption's womb. leave behind prison,fetters and gloom! those who proceed for him,lovingly bleed for him, brotherly feed for him,travel and plead for him,

and to bliss lead for him,for you the master is near, for you he is here. - why do you go that way?- we are going to hunter's lodge today. - but we would rather go to the mill.- go to the river inn, that's my advice. - i think, the way there isn't nice.- where are you going? up the hill. burgdorf would be much better.let's go there with the rest: the girls there are stunning,their beer is the best, and it's first-class, too, for a fight.

you are indeed a peppy bird,twice spanked, you're itching for the third. let's not, the place is really a fright. no, no! i'll go back to the town again. we'll find him at the poplars,i'm certain it is true. what's that to me? is it not plain,he'll walk and dance only with you? he thinks, you are the only one.and why should i care for your fun? he will not be alone. he said,today he'd bring the curly-head. just see those wenches over there!come, brother, let us help the pair... a good strong beer, a smarting pipe,and a maid, nicely dressed - that is my typel

look there and see those handsome blades!i think it is a crying shame: they could have any girl that meets with their acclaim,and chase after these silly maids. don't go so fast; behind us are two more,and they are dressed at least as neatly. i know one girl, she lives next door,and she bewitches me completely. the way they walk, they seem demure,but won't mind company, i'm sure. no, brother, i don't like those coy addresses.come on, before we lose the wilder prey. the hand that wields the broom on saturdaywill, comes the sunday, give the best caresses. no, the new mayor is no good, that's what i say.since he's in, he's fresher by the day. what has he done for our city?things just get worse; it is a pity!

we must obey, he thinks he's clever,and we pay taxes more than ever. good gentlemen and ladies fair,so red of cheek, so rich in dress, be pleased to look on my despair,to see and lighten my distress. let me not grind here, vainly waiting!for only those who give are gay, and when all men are celebrating,then i should have my harvest day. on sun- and holidays, there is no better fun,than chattering of wars and warlike fray, when off in turkey, far away,one people beats the other one. we stand at the window, drink a wine that is light,watch the boats glide down the river, see the foam, and cheerfully go back at night,grateful that we have peace at home.

yes, neighbor, that is nicely said.let them crack skulls, and wound, and maim, let all the world stand on its head;but here, at home, all should remain the same. ah, how dressed up! so pretty and so young!who would not stop to stare at you? don't be puffed up, i'll hold my tongue.i know your wish, and how to get it, too. come quickly, agatha! i take good heednot to be seen with witches; it's unwise. though on st. andrew's night she brought indeedmy future lover right before my eyes. she showed me mine, but in a crystal ballwith other soldiers, bold and tall; i have been looking ever since,but so far haven't found my prince. castles with loftytowers and banners,

maidens with haughty,disdainful manners i want to capture.fair is the dare, splendid the pay.and we let trumpets do our wooing,for our pleasures and our undoing.life is all storming, life is all splendor,maidens and castles have to surrender.fair is the dare, splendid the pay.and then the soldiers march on away.

released from the ice are river and creek,warned by the spring's fair quickening eye; the valley is green with hope and joy;the hoary winter has grown so weak he has withdrawn to the rugged mountains.from there he sends, but only in flight, impotent showers of icy hailthat streak across the greening vale; but the sun will not suffer the white;everywhere stirs what develops and grows, all he would quicken with color that glows;flowers are lacking, blue, yellow, and red, but he takes dressed-up people instead.turn around now and look down from the heights back to the town.out of the hollow gloomy gate surges and scatters a motley horde.all seek sunshine. they celebrate

the resurrection of the lord.for they themselves are resurrected from lowly houses, musty as stables,from trades to which they are subjected, from the pressure of roofs and gables,from the stilling and narrow alleys, from the churches' reverent nightthey have emerged into the light. look there! look, how the crowd now salliesgracefully into the gardens and leas, how on the river, all through the valley,frolicsome floating boats one sees, and, overloaded beyond its fill,this last barge now is swimming away. from the far pathways of the hillwe can still see how their clothes are gay. i hear the village uproar rise;here is the people's paradise,

and great and small shout joyously:here i am human, may enjoy humanity! to take a walk with you, good sir,is a great honor and reward, but i myself should never so far err,for the uncouth i always have abhorred. this fiddling, bowling, loud delight-i hate these noises of the throng; they rage as if plagued by an evil spriteand call it joy and call it song. the shepherd wished to dance and dressedwith ribbons, wreath, and motley vest he was a dandy beau. around the linden, lass and ladwere crowding, dancing round like mad. hurrah! hurrah!hurrah! hi-diddle-dee!

thus went the fiddle bow.he pressed into the dancing whirl his elbow bumped a pretty girl,and he stepped on her toe. the lively wench, she turned and said:"you seem to be a dunderhead!" don't treat a poor girl so.the circle whirled in dancing flight, now they danced left, now they danced right,the skirts flow high and low. their cheeks were flushed and they grew warmarid rested, panting, arm in arm. with waists and elbows so.please do not make so free with me! for many fool their bride-to-beand lie, as you well know. and yet he coaxed the girl aside,and from the linden, far and wide:

clamor and fiddle bow. dear doctor, it is good of youthat you don't spurn us on this day but find into this swarming throng,though a great scholar, still your way. so please accept the finest mug;with a good mink it has been filled, i offer it and wish aloud:not only may your thirst be stilled; as many drops as it conveysought to be added to your days. i take the bumper and i, too,thank and wish health to all of you. indeed, it is most kind of youthat you appear this happy day; when evil days came in the past,you always helped in every way.

and many stand here, still alive,whom your good father toiled to wrest from the hot fever's burning ragewhen he prevailed over the pest. and you, a young man at that time,made to the sick your daily round. while many corpses were brought out,you always emerged safe and sound, and took these trials in your stride:the helper helped the helper here. health to the man so often tried!may he yet help for many a year! bow down before him, all of you,who teaches help and sends help, too. oh, what a feeling you must have, great man,when crowds revere you like a mighty lord. oh, blessed are all those who canemploy their gifts for such reward.

the father shows you to his son,they ask what gives and come and run, the fiddle stops, the dance is done.you walk, they stand in rows to see, into the air their caps will fly- a little more, and they would bend their kneeas if the holy host went by. now just a few more steps uphill to the big stone,from our wandering we can rest up there. i often sat there, thoughtful and alone,and vexed myself with fasting and with prayer. in hope still rich, with faith still blessed,i thought entreaties, tears, and sighs would force the master of the skiesto put an end to the long pest. the crowd's applause now sounds like caustic fun.i only wish you could read in my heart

how little father and sondeserve such fame for their poor art. my father was obscure, if quite genteel,and pondered over nature and every sacred sphere in his own cranky way, though quite sincere,with ardent, though with wayward, zeal. and with proficient devotees,in his black kitchen he would fuse after unending recipes,locked in, the most contrary brews. they made red lions, a bold wooer came,in tepid baths was mated to a lilly; and then the pair was vexed with a wide-open flamefrom one bride chamber to another, willy-nilly... and when the queen appeared, all pied,within the glass after a spell, the medicine was there, and though the patients died,nobody questioned: who got well?

and thus we raged fanaticallyin these same mountains, in this valley, with hellish juice worse than the pest. though thousands died from poisonthat i myself would give, yes, though they perished, i must liveto hear the shameless killers blessed. i cannot see why you are grieved.what more can honest people do than be conscientious and pursuewith diligence the art that they received? if you respect your father as a youth,you'll learn from him what you desire; if as a man you add your share of truthto ancient lore, your son can go still higher. oh, happy who still hopes to riseout of this sea of errors and false views!

what one does not know, one could utilize,and what one knows one cannot use. but let the beauty offered by this hournot be destroyed by our spleen! see how, touched by the sunset's parting power,the huts are glowing in the green. the sun moves on, the day has had its round;he hastens on, new life greets his salute. oh, that no wings lift me above the groundto strive and strive in his pursuit! in the eternal evening lightthe quiet world would lie below with every valley tranquil, on fire every height,the silver stream to golden rivers flow. nor could the mountain with its savage guiseand all its gorges check my godlike ways; already ocean with its glistening baysspreads out before astonished eyes.

at last the god sinks down, i seem forsaken;but i feel new unrest awaken and hurry hence to drink his deathless light,the day before me, and behind me night, the billows under me, and over me the sky.a lovely dream, while he makes his escape. the spirit's wings will not change our shape:our body grows no wings and cannot fly. yet it is innate in our racethat our feelings surge in us and long when over us, lost in the azure spacethe lark trills out her glorious song; when over crags where fir trees quakein icy winds, the eagle soars, and over plains and over lakesthe crane returns to homeward shores. i, too, have spells of eccentricity,but such unrest has never come to me.

one soon grows sick of forest, field, and brook,and i shall never envy birds their wings. far greater are the joys the spirit brings -from page to page, from book to book. thus winter nights grow fair and warm the soul;yes, blissful life suffuses every limb, and when one opens up an ancient parchment scroll,the very heavens will descend on him. you are aware of only one unrest;oh, never learn to know the other! two souls, alas, are dwelling in my breast,and one is striving to forsake its brother. unto the world in grossly loving zest,with clinging tendrils, one adheres; the other rises forcibly in questof rarefied ancestral spheres. if there be spirits in the airthat hold their sway between the earth and sky,

descend out of the golden vapors thereand sweep me into iridescent life. oh, came a magic cloak into my handsto carry me to distant lands, i should not trade it for the choicest gown,nor for the cloak and garments of the crown. do not invoke the well-known throng that flowthrough mists above and spread out in the haze, concocting danger in a thousand waysfor man wherever he may go. from the far north the spirits' deadly fangsbear down on you with arrow-pointed tongues; and from the east they come with withering pangsand nourish themselves from your lungs. the midday sends out of the desert thosewho pile heat upon heat upon your crown, while evening brings the throng that spells repose-and then lets you, and fields and meadows, drown.

they gladly listen, but are skilled in harm,gladly obey, because they like deceit; as if from heaven sent, they please and charm,whispering like angels when they cheat. but let us go! the air has cooled, the worldturned gray, mists are unfurled. when evening comes one values home,why do you stand amazed? what holds your eyes? what in the twilight merits such surprise? see that black dogthrough grain and stubble roam? i noticed him way back,but cared not in the least. look well!for what would you take this strange beast? why, for a poodle fretting doggedlyas it pursues the tracks left by its master.

it spirals all around us, as you see,and it approaches, fast and faster. and if i do not err, a fiery eddywhirls after it and marks the trail. i see the poodle, as i said already;as for the rest, your eyesight seems to fail. it seems to me that he winds magic snaresaround our feet, a bond of future dangers. he jumps around, unsure,and our presence scares the dog who seeks his master,and finds instead two strangers. the spiral narrows, he is near! you see, a dog and not a ghost is here.he growls, lies on his belly, thus he waits, he wags his tail: all canine traits.

come here and walk along with nsl he's poodlishly ridiculous.you stand and rest, and he waits, too; you speak to him, and he would climb on you;lose something, he will bring it back again, jump in the lake to get your cane. you seem quite right, i find, for all his skill,no trace of any spirit: all is drill. by dogs that are expertly trainedthe wisest man is entertained. he quite deserves your favor: it is prudentto cultivate the students' noble student. the fields and meadows i have fledas night enshrouds them and the lakes; with apprehensive, holy dreadthe better soul in us awakes.

wild passions have succumbed to sleep,all vehement exertions bow; the love of man stirs in us deep,the love of god is stirring now. be quiet, poodle! stop running around! why do you snuffle at the sill like that?lie down behind the stove-not on the ground: take my best cushion for a mat.as you amused us on our way with running and jumping and did your best,let me look after you and say: be quiet, please, and be my guest. when in our narrow denthe friendly lamp glows on the shelf, then light pervades our breast againand fills the heart that knows itself.

reason again begins to speak,hope blooms again with ancient force, one longs for life and one would seekits rivers and, alas, its source. stop snarling poodle! for the sacred strain to which my soul is now submittingbeastly sounds are hardly fitting. we are accustomed to see men disdainwhat they don't grasp; when it gives trouble, they profaneeven the beautiful and the good. do dogs, too, snarl at what's not understood?even now, however, though i tried my best, contentment flows no longer through my breast.why does the river rest so soon, and dry up, and leave us to languish in the sand?how well i know frustration!

this want, however, we can overwhelm:we turn to the supernatural realm, we long for the light of revelationwhich is nowhere more magnificent than in our new testament.i would for once like to determine because i am sincerely perplexedhow the sacred original text could be translated into my beloved german.it says: "in the beginning was the word." already i am stopped. it seems absurd.the word does not deserve the highest prize, i must translate it otherwiseif i am well inspired and not blind. it says: in the beginning was the mind.ponder that first line, wait and see, lest you should write too hastily.is mind the all-creating source?

it ought to say:in the beginning there was force. yet something warns me as i grasp the pen, that my translation must be changed again.the spirit helps me. now it is exact. i write: in the beginning was the act.if i am to share my room with you, poodle, stop moaning so!and stop your bellow, for such a noisy, whiny fellowi do not like to have around. one of us, black hound,will have to give ground. with reluctance i change my mind:the door is open, you are not confined. but what must i see!can that happen naturally?

is it a shadow? am i open-eyed?how grows my poodle long and wide! he reaches up like rising fogthis is no longer the shape of a dog! oh, what a specter i brought home!a hippopotamus of foam, with fiery eyes; how his teeth shine!you are as good as mine: for such a semi-hellish browthe key of solomon will do. one has been caught inside.do not follow him! abide! as a fox in a snare,hell's old lynx is caught in there. but give heed!float up high, float down low, to and fro,and he tries, and he is freed.

can you avail him?then do not fail him! for you must not forget,we are in his debt. countering the beast i might wellfirst use the fourfold spell: salamander shall broil, undene shall grieve,sylphe shall leave, kobold shall toil whoever ignoresthe elements' cores, their energyand quality, cannot commandin the spirits' land.

disappear flashing, salamander!flow together, splashing, undene!glow in meteoric beauty, sylphe!do your domestic duty, incubus! incubus!step forward and finish thus. none of the fouris this beast's score. it lies quite calmly there and beams; i have not hurt it yet, it seems.now listen well to a stronger spell.

if you should behell's progeny, then see this symbolbefore which tremble the cohorts of hell!already it bristles and starts to swell spirit of shame, can you read the nameof the uncreated, defying expression,with whom the heavens are sated, who was pierced in transgression?behind the stove it swells as an elephant under my spells; it fills the whole room and quakes,it would turn into mist and fleet

stop now before the ceiling breaks!lie down at your master's feet! you see, i do not threaten in vain:with holy flames i cause you pain. do not requirethe threefold glowing fire! do not requiremy art in its full measurel why all the noise?good sir, what is your pleasure? then this was our poodle's core!simply a traveling scholar? the casus makes me laugh. profound respects to you and to your lore:you made me sweat with all your chaff. what is your name?

this question seems minutefor one who thinks the word so beggarly, who holds what seems in disrepute.and craves only reality. your real being no less than your fameis often shown, sirs, by your name, which is not hard to analyzewhen one calls you the liar, destroyer, god of flies. enough, who are you then? part of that force which woulddo evil evermore, and yet creates the good. what is it that this puzzle indicates? i am the spirit that negates.and rightly so, for all that comes to be deserves to perish wretchedly;'twere better nothing would begin.

thus everything that your terms, sin,destruction, evil represent- that is my proper element. you call yourself a part,yet whole make your debut? the modest truth i speak to you.while man, this tiny world of fools, is droll enough to think himself a whole,i am part of the part that once was everything, part of the darkness which gave birth to light,that haughty light which envies mother night her ancient rank and place and would be king -yet it does not succeed: however it contend, it sticks to bodies in the end.it streams from bodies, it lends bodies beauty, a body won't let it progress;so it will not take long, i guess,

and with the bodies it will perish, too. i understand your noble duty:too weak for great destruction, you attempt it on a minor scale. and i admit it is of slight avail.what stands opposed to our nought, the some, your wretched world - for aughtthat i have so far undertaken, it stands unruffled and unshaken:with billows, fires, storms, commotion, calm, after all, remain both land and ocean.and that accursed lot, the brood of beasts and men, one cannot hurt them anyhow.how many have i buried now! yet always fresh new blood will circulate again.thus it goes on - i could rage in despair!

from water, earth, and even air,a thousand seeds have ever grown in warmth and cold and drought and mire!if i had not reserved myself the fire, i should have nothing of my own. and thus, i see, you would resistthe ever-live creative power by clenching your cold devil's fistresentfully-in vain you glower. try something new and unrelated,oh you peculiar son of chaos! perchance your reasoning might sway us -the next few times we may debate it but for the present, may i go? i cannot see why you inquire.now that we met, you ought to know

that you may call as you desire.here is the window, here the door, a chimney there, if that's preferred. i cannot leave you that way, i deplore:by a small obstacle i am deterred: the witch's foot on your threshold, see- the pentagram distresses you?then, son of hell, explain to me: how could you enter here without ado?and how was such a spirit cheated? behold it well: it is not quite completed,one angle - that which points outside is open just a little bit. that was indeed a lucky hit.i caught you and you must abide.

how wonderful, and yet how queer! the poodle never noticed when he first jumped in here,but now it is a different case; the devil cannot leave this place. the window's there. are you in awe? the devils and the demons have a law:where they slipped in, they always must withdraw. the first time we are free,the second time constrained. for hell, too, laws have been ordained?superb! then one could surely make a pact, and one of you might enter my employ. what we would promise you, you would enjoy,and none of it we would subtract.

but that we should not hurry so,and we shall talk about it soon; for now i ask the single boonthat you permit me now to go. for just a moment stay with meand let me have some happy news. not now. i'll come back presently,then you may ask me what you choose. you were not caught by my devicewhen you were snared like this tonight. who holds the devil, hold him tight! he can't expect to catch him twice. if you prefer it, i shall staywith you, and i shall not depart, upon condition that i mayamuse you with some samples of my art.

go right ahead, you are quite freeprovided it is nice to see. right in this hour you will obtainmore for your senses than you gain in a whole year's monotony.what tender spirits now will sing, the lovely pictures that they bringare not mere magic for the eye: they will delight your sense of smell,be pleasing to your taste as well, excite your touch, and give you joy.no preparation needs my art, we are together, let us start vanish, you darklingarches above him. friendlier beaming,sky should be gleaming

down upon us.ah, that the darkling clouds had departed!stars now are sparkling, more tenderheartedsuns shine on us. spirits aerial,fair and ethereal, wavering and bending,sail by like swallows. yearning unendingsees them and follows. garments are flowing,ribbons are blowing, covering the glowingland and the bower where, in the hedges,thinking and dreaming,

lovers make pledges.bower on bower. tendrils are streaming;heavy grapes shower their sweet excessesinto the presses; in streams are flowingwines that are glowing, foam, effervescent,through iridescent gems; they are stormingdown from the mountains; lakes they are forming,beautiful fountains where hills are ending,birds are descending, drink and fly onward,fly ever sunward,

fly from the highlandstoward the ocean where brilliant islandssway in soft motion. jubilant choirssoothe all desires, and are entrancingthose who are dancing like whirling satyrs,but the throng scatters. some now are scalingover the mountains, others are sailingtoward the fountains, others are soaring,all life adoring, all crave the far-offlove-spending star of

rapturous bliss. he sleeps. i thank you, airy, tender throng.you made him slumber with your song. a splendid concert. i appreciate thisyou are not yet the man to hold the devil fast. go, dazzle him with dream shapes, sweet and vast,plunge him into an ocean of untruth. but now, to break the threshold's spell at last,i have to get a rat's sharp tooth. i need no conjuring today, one's rustling over thereand will come right away. the lord of rats, the lord of mice,of flies and frogs, bedbugs and lice, bids you to dare now to appearto gnaw upon this threshold here,

where he is dabbing it with oil.ah, there you come. begin your toil. the point that stopped me like a magic hedgeis way up front, right on the edge. just one more bite, and that will do. now, faustus, sleep and dream,till i come back to you. betrayed again? fooled by a scheme?should spirits' wealth so suddenly decay that i behold the devil in a dream,and that a poodle jumps away? a knock? come in! who comes to plague me now? it's i. come in!

you have to say it thrice. come in, then. now you're nice. we should get along well, i vow.to chase your spleen away, allow that i appear a noble squire:look at my red and gold attire, a little cloak of silk brocade,the rooster's feather in my hat, and the long, nicely pointed bladeand now it is my counsel that you, too, should be like this arrayed;then, you would feel released and free, and you would find what life can be.

i shall not cease to feel in all attires,the pains of our narrow earthly day. i am too old to be content to play.too young to be without desire. what wonders could the world reveal?you must renounce! you ought to yield! that is the never-ending dronewhich we must, our life long, hear which, hoarsely, all our hours intoneand grind into our weary ears. frightened i wake to the dismal dawn,wish i had ears to drown the sun and check the day that soon will scornmy every wish - fulfill not one. if i but think of any pleasure,bright critic day is sure to chide it, and if my heart creates itself a treasure,a thousand mocking masks deride it.

when night descends at last, i shall reclinebut anxiously upon my bed; though all is still, no rest is mineas dreams enmesh my mind in dread. the god that dwells within my heartcan stir my depths, i cannot hide - rules all my powers with relentless art,but cannot move the world outside; and thus existence is for me a weight,death is desirable, and life i hate. and yet when death approaches,the welcome is not great. oh, blessed whom, as victory advances,he lends the blood-drenched laurel's grace who, after wildly whirling dances,receives him in a girl's embrace! oh, that before the lofty spirit's poweri might have fallen to the ground, unsouled!

and yet someone, in that same nightly hourrefused to drain a certain bowl. you seem to eavesdrop quite proficiently. omniscient i am not,but there is much i see. as in that terrifying reelingi heard the sweet familiar chimes that duped the traces of my childhood feelingwith echoes of more joyous times, i now curse all that would enamorthe human soul with lures and lies, enticing it with flattering glamourto live on in this cave of sighs. cursed above all our high esteem,the spirit's smug self-confidence, cursed be illusion, fraud, and dreamthat flatter our guileless sense!

cursed be the pleasing make-believeof fame and long posthumous life i cursed be possessions, that deceive,as slave and plough, and child and wife! cursed, too, be mammon when with treasureshe spurs us on to daring feats, or lures us into slothful pleasureswith sumptuous cushions and smooth sheets! a curse on wine that mocks our thirst!a curse on love's last consummations! a curse on hope! faith, too, be cursed!and cursed above all else be patience! alas!you have shattered the beautiful worldwith brazen fist; it falls, it is scattered -by a demigod destroyed.

we are trailingthe ruins into the void and wailingover beauty undone and ended.earth's mighty son, more splendidrebuild it, you that are strong, build it again within!and begin a new life, a new way,lucid and gay, and playnew songs. these are the smallones of my thralls. hear how precociously they pleadfor pleasure and deed!

to worldly strifefrom your lonely life which dries up sap and sense,they would lure you hence. stop playing with your melancholy that, like a vulture, ravages your breast;the worst of company still cures this folly, for you are human with the rest.yet that is surely not to say that you should join the herd you hate.i'm not one of the great, but if you want to make your waythrough the world with me united, i should surely be delightedto be yours, as of now, your companion, if you allow;and if you like the way i behave,

i shall be your servant, or your slave. and in return, what do you hope to take? there's so much time - so why insist? no, no! the devil is an egoistand would not just for heaven's sake turn into a philanthropist.make your conditions very clear; where such a servant lives, danger is near. here you shall be the master, i be bond,and at your nod i'll work incessantly; but when we meet again beyond,then you shall do the same for me. of the beyond i have no though;when you reduce this world to nought,

the other one may have its turn.my joys come from this earth, and there, that sun has burnt on my despair:once i have left those, i don't care: what happens is of no concern.i do not even wish to hear whether beyond they hate and love,and whether in that other sphere - one realm's below and one above. so minded, dare it cheerfully.commit yourself and you shall see my arts with joy. i'll give you morethan any man has seen before. what would you, wretched devil, offer?was ever a man's spirit in its noble striving grasped by your like, devilish scoffer?but have you food that is not satisfying,

red gold that rolls off without rest,quicksilver-like, over your skin - a game in which no man can win -a girl who, lying at my breast, ogles already to entice my neighbor,and honor - that perhaps seems best - though like a comet it will turn to vapor?show me the fruit that, before we pluck them, rot, and trees whose foliageevery day makes new! such a commission scares me not,with such things i can wait on you. but, worthy friend, the time comes when we wouldrecline in peace and feast on something good. if ever i recline, calmed, on a bed of sloth,you may destroy me then and there. if ever flattering you should wile methat in myself i find delight,

if with enjoyment you beguile me,then break on me, eternal night! this bet i offer. i accept it. right! if to the moment i should say:abide, you are so fair - put me in fetters on that day,i wish to perish then, i swear. then let the death bell ever toll,your service done, you shall be free, the clock may stop, the hand may faras time comes to an end for me. consider it, for we shall not forget it.

that is a right you need not waive.i did not boast, and i shall not regret it. as i grow stagnant i shall be a slave,whether or not to anyone indebted. at the doctor's banquet tonight i shall domy duties as a servant without fail. but for life's sake, or death's--just one detail:could you give me a line or two? you pedant need it black on white?are man and a man's word indeed new to your sight? is not my spoken word sufficient warrantwhen it commits my life eternally? does not the world rush on in every torrent,and a mere promise should hold me? yet this illusion our heart inherits,and who would want to shirk his debt? blessed who counts loyalty among his merits.no sacrifice will he regret.

and yet a parchment, signed and sealed, is an abhorrentspecter that haunts us, and it makes us fret. the word dies when we seize the pen,and wax and leather lord it then. what, evil spirit, do you ask?paper or parchment, stone or brass? should i use chisel, style, or quill?it is completely up to you. why get so hot and overdoyour rhethoric? why must you shrill? use any sheet, it is the same;and with a drop of blood you sign your name. if you are sure you like this game,let it be done to humor you. blood is a very special juice you need not fear that someday i retract.that all my striving i unloose

is the whole purpose of the pact.oh, i was puffed up all too boldly, at your rank only is my place.the lofty spirit spurned me coldly, and nature hides from me her face.tom is the subtle thread of thought, i loathe the knowledge i once sought.in sensuality's abysmal land let our passions drink their fill!in magic veils, not pierced by skill, let every wonder be at hand!plunge into time's whirl that dazes my sense, into the torrent of events!and let enjoyment, distress, annoyance and successsucceed each other as best they can; for restless activity proves a man.

you are not bound by goal or measure.if you would nibble everything or snatch up something on the wing,you're welcome to what gives you pleasure. but help yourself and don't be coy! do you not hear, i have no thought of joy!the reeling whirl i seek, the most painful excess, enamored hate and quickening distress.cured from the craving to know all, my mind shall not henceforth be closed to any pain,and what is portioned out to all mankind, i shall enjoy deep in my self, containwithin my spirit summit and abyss, pile on my breast their agony and bliss;and thus let my own self grow into theirs, unfettered, till as they are,at last i, too, am shattered.

believe me who for many a thousand yearhas chewed this cud and never rested, that from the cradle to the bierthe ancient leaven cannot be digested. trust one like me, this whole arrayis for a god - there's no contender: he dwells in his eternal splendor,to darkness we had to surrender, and you need night as well as day. and yet it is my will. it does sound bold. but i'm afraid, though you are clever,time is too brief, though art's forever. perhaps you're willing to be told.why don't you find yourself a poet,

and let the gentleman ransack his dreams:and when he finds a noble trait, let him bestow it upon your worthy head in reams and reams:the lion's daring, the swiftness of the hind,the northerner's forbearing and the italian's fiery mind,let him resolve the mystery how craft can be combined with magnanimity,or how a passion-crazed young man might fall in love after a plan.if there were such a man, i'd like to meet him, as mr. microcosm i would greet him. alas, what am i, if i cannot reach for mankind's crown which merely mocks our senses' craving like a star?

you're in the end - just what you are!put wigs on with a million locks and put your foot on ell-high socks,you still remain just what you are. i feel, i gathered up and piled up highin vain the treasures of the human mind: when i sit down at last, i cannot findnew strength within - it is all dry. my stature has not grown a whit,no closer to the infinite. well, my good sir, to put it crudely,you see matters just as they lie; we have to look at them more shrewdly,or all life' s pleasures pass us by. your hands and feet - indeed that's triteand head and seat are yours alone; yet all in which i find delight,should they be less my own?

suppose i buy myself six steeds:i buy their strength; while i recline i dash along at whirlwind speeds,for their two dozen legs are mine. come on! let your reflections restand plunge into the world with zest! i say, the man that speculatesis like a beast that in the sand, led by an evil spirit, round and round gyrates,and all about lies gorgeous pasture land. how shall we set about it? simply leave. what torture room is this? what site of grief?is this the noble life of prudence - you bore yourself and bore your students?oh, let your neighbor, mr. paunch, live so!

why work hard threshing straw, when it annoys?the best that you could ever know you may not tell the little boys.right now i hear one in the aisle. i simply cannot face the lad. the poor chap waited quite a while,i do not want him to leave sad. give me your cap and gown. not bad!this mask ought to look exquisite! now you can leave things to my wit.some fifteen minutes should be all i need; meanwhile get ready for our trip, and speed! have but contempt for reason and for science,man's noblest force spurn with defiance, subscribe to magic and illusion,the lord of lies aids your confusion,

and, pact or no, i hold you tight.-the spirit which he has received from fate sweeps ever onward with unbridled might,its hasty striving is so great it leaps over the earth's delights.through life i'll drag him at a rate, through shallow triviality,that he shall writhe and suffocate; and his insatiability,with greedy lips, shall see the choicest plate and ask in vain for all that he would cherishand were he not the devil's mate and had not signed, he still must perish. i have arrived quite recentlyand come, full of humility, to meet that giant intellectwhom all refer to with respect.

this is a charming pleasantry.a man as others are, you see.- have you already called elsewhere? i pray you, take me in your care.i am, believe me, quite sincere, have some odd cash and lots of cheer;my mother scarcely let me go, but there is much i hope to know. this is just the place for you to stay. to be frank, i should like to run away.i cannot say i like these walls, these gloomy rooms and somber halls.it seems so narrow, and i see no patch of green, no single tree;and in the auditorium

my hearing, sight, and thought grow numb. that is a question of mere habit.the child, offered the mother's breast, will not in the beginning grab it;but soon it clings to it with zest. and thus at wisdom's copious breastsyou'll drink each day with greater zest. i'll hang around her neck, enraptured;but tell me first: how is she captured? before we get into my viewswhat department do you choose? i should like to be erudite,and from the earth to heaven's height know every law and every action:nature and science is what i need. that is the way; you just proceedand scrupulously shun distraction.

body and soul, i am a devotee;though, naturally, everybody prays for some free time and libertyon pleasant summer holidays. use well your time, so swiftly it runs on!be orderly, and time is won! my friend, i shall be pedagogic,and say you ought to start with logic. for thus your mind is trained and braced,in spanish boots it will be laced, that on the road of thought maybeit henceforth creep more thoughtfully, and does not crisscross here and there,will-o'-the-wisping through the air. days will be spent to let you knowthat what you once did at one blow, like eating and drinking so easy and free,can only be done with one, two, three.

yet the web of thought has no such creasesand is more like a weaver's masterpieces: one step, a thousand threads arise,hither and thither shoots each shuttle, the threads flow on, unseen and subtle,each blow effects a thousand ties. the philosopher comes with analysisand proves it had to be like this: the first was so, the second so,and hence the third and fourth was so, and were not the first and the second here,then the third and fourth could never appear. that is what all the students believe,but they have never learned to weave. who would study and describe the living, startsby driving the spirit out of the parts: in the palm of his handhe holds all the sections,

lacks nothing, except the spirit's connections.encheirisis naturae the chemists baptize it, mock themselves and don't realize it. i did not quite get everything. that will improve with studying:you will reduce things by and by and also learn to classify. i feel so dazed by all you saidas if a mill went around in my head. then, without further circumvention,give metaphysics your attention. there seek profoundly to attainwhat does not lit the human brain; whether you do or do not understand,an impressive word is always at hand.

but now during your first half-year,keep above all our order here. five hours a day, you understand,and when the bell peals, be on hand. before you come, you must prepare,read every paragraph with care, lest you, forbid, should overlookthat all he says is in the book... but write down everything, engrossedas if you took dictation from the holy ghost. don't say that twice - i understood:i see how useful it's to write for what we possess black on whitewe can take home and keep for good. but choose a field of concentration! i have no hankering for jurisprudence.

for that i cannot blame the students,i know this science is a blight. the laws and statutes of a nationare an inherited disease, from generation unto generationand place to place they drag on by degrees. wisdom becomes nonsense; kindness, oppression:to be a grandson is a curse. the right that is innate in usis not discussed by the profession. my scorn is heightened by your speech.happy the man that you would teach! i almost think theology would pay. i should not wish to lead you astray.when it comes to this discipline, the way is hard to find, wrong roads abound,and lots of hidden poison lies around

which one can scarcely tell from medicine.here, too, it would be best you heard one only and staked all upon your master's word.yes, stick to words at any rate; there never was a surer gateinto the temple, certainty. yet some idea there must be. all right. but do not plague yourself too anxiously;for just where no ideas are the proper word is never far.with words a dispute can be won, with words a system can be spun,in words one can believe unshaken; and from a word no title can be taken. forgive, i hold you up with many questions,but there is one more thing i'd like to see.

regarding medicine, maybe,you have some powerful suggestions? three years go by so very fast,and, god, the field is all too vast. if but a little hint is shown,one can attempt to find one's way. i'm sick of this pedantic tone.the devil now again i'll play. the spirit of medicine is easy to know:through the macro-and microcosm you breeze, and in the end you let it goas god may please. in vain you roam about to study science.for each learns only what he can; who places on the moment his reliance,he is the proper man. you are quite handsome, have good sense,and no doubt, you have courage, too,

and if you have self-confidence,then others will confide in you. and give the women special care;their everlasting sighs and groans in thousand tonesare cured at one point everywhere. and if you seem halfway discreet,they will be lying at your feet. first your degree inspires trust,as if your art had scarcely any peers; right at the start, remove her clothes and touch her bust,things for which others wait for years and years. learn well the little pulse to squeeze,and with a knowing, fiery glance you seize her freely round her slender waistto see how tightly she is laced that looks much better, sir.for one sees how and where.

gray, my dear friend, is every theory,and green alone life's golden tree. all this seems like a dream, i swear.could i impose on you sometime again and drink more words of wisdom then? what i can give you, you shall get. alas, i cannot go quite yet:my album i must give to you; please, sir, show me this favor, too. all right. eritis sicut deus,scientes bonum et malum. follow the ancient textand my relation, the snake;

your very likeness to godwill yet make you quiver and quake. where are we heading now? wherever you may please.we'll see the small world, then the larger one. you will reap pront and have funas you sweep through this course with ease. with my long beard i hardly maylive in this free and easy way. the whole endeavor seems so futile;i always felt the world was strange and brutal. with others, i feel small and harassed,and i shall always be embarrassed. good friend, you will become less sensitive:self-confidence will teach you how to live. how shall we get away from here?where are your carriage, groom and steed?

i rather travel through the air:we spread this cloak-that's all we need. but on this somewhat daring flight,be sure to, keep your luggage light. a little fiery air, which i plan to prepare,will raise us swiftly off the earth; without ballast we'll go up fast -congratulations, friend, on your rebirth! will no one drink and no one laugh?i'll teach you not to look so wry. today you look like sodden chaffand usually blaze to the sky. it's all your fault; you make me sick:no joke, and not a single dirty trick. there you have both. you filthy pig!

you said i shouldn't be a prig. let those who fight, stop or get out!with all your lungs sing chorus, swill, and shout! come! holla-ho! now this is where i quit.get me some cotton or my ears will split. when the vault echoes and the placeis quaking, then you can enjoy a bass. quite right! throw out who fusses because he is lampooned!a! tara lara da! a! tara lara da! the throats seem to be tuned. dear holy roman empire,what holds you still together?

a nasty song! it reeks of politics!a wretched song! thank god in daily prayer, that the old empire isn't your affair!at least i think it is much to be grateful for that i'm not emperor nor chancellor.and yet we, too, need someone to respect - i say, a pope let us elect.you know the part that elevates and thereby proves the man who rates. oh, dame nightingale, arise!bring my sweet love ten thousand sighs! no sighs for your sweet love!i will not have such mush. a sigh and kiss for her!you cannot make me blush. ope the latch in silent night!ope the latch, your love invite

shut the latch, there is the dawn! go, sing and sing and sing, pay compliments and fawn!the time will come when i shall laugh: she led me by the nose, and you are the next calf.her lover should be some mischievous gnome! he'd meet her at a crossroads and make light,and an old billy goat that's racing home from blocksberg could still bleat to her "good night!"a decent lad of real flesh and blood is far too good to be her stud.i'll stand no sighs, you silly ass, but throw rocks through her window glass. look here! look here! listen to me!my friends, confess i know what's right; there are lovers here, and you'll agreethat it's only civility

that i should try to honor them tonight.watch out! this song's the latest fashion. and join in the refrain with passion! a cellar once contained a ratthat couldn't have been uncouther, lived on grease and butter and grew fat -just like old doctor luther. the cook put poison in his food,then he felt cramped and just as stewed, as if love gnawed his vitals. he dashed around, he dashed outdoors,sought puddles and swilled rain, he clawed and scratched up walls and floors,but his frenzy was in vain; he jumped up in a frightful huff,but soon the poor beast had enough,

at last he rushed in open dayinto the kitchen, crazed with fear, dropped near the stove and writhed and lay,and puffed out his career. the poisoner only laughed: i hopehe's at the end now of his rope, how pleased these stupid chaps are!that's, i think, indeed a proper art to put out poison for poor rats. i see, you'd like to take their part. potbelly with his shiny top!his ill luck makes him mild and tame. he sees the bloated rat go flop -and sees himself: they look the same. above all else, it seems to me,you need some jolly company

to see life can be fun - to say the least:the people here make every day a feast. with little wit and boisterous noise,they dance and circle in their narrow trails like kittens playing with their tails.when hangovers don't vex these boys, and while their credit's holding out,they have no cares and drink and shout. those two are travelers, i sweari tell it right off by the way they stare. they have been here at most an hour. no doubt about it. leipzig is a flower,it is a little paris and educates its people. what may they be? who knows the truth? leave it to me! a drink that interposesand i'll pull like a baby tooth

the worms they hide, out of these fellows' noses.they seem to be of noble ancestry, for they look proud and act disdainfully. they are mere quacks and born in squalor. maybe. watch out! we shall commence. the devil people never sense,though he may hold them by the collar. good evening, gentlemen. thank you, to you the same. look at his foot. why is it lame?

we'll join you,if you grant the liberty. the drinks they have are poor,their wine not very mellow, so we'll enjoy your company. you seem a most fastidious fellow. did you leave rippach rather late and walk?and did you first have dinner with master jackass there? tonight we had no time to spare.last time, however, we had quite a talk. he had a lot to say of his relationsand asked us to send each his warmest salutations. you got it! he's all right. a pretty repartee!

i'll get him yet. just wait and see. just now we heard, if i'm not wrong,some voices singing without fault. indeed this seems a place for song;no doubt, it echoes from the vault. are you perchance a virtuoso? oh no, the will is great,the power only so-so. give us a song; as many as you please. but let us have a brand-new strain! we have just recently returned from spain,the beauteous land of wine and melodies.

a king lived long agowho had a giant flea - hear, hear! a flea! that's what i call a jest.a flea's a mighty pretty guest. a king lived long agowho had a giant flea, he loved him just as thoughhe were his son and heir. he sent his tailor a noteand offered the tailor riches: if he would measure a coatand also take measure for breeches! be sure to tell the tailor, if he twinkles,that he must take fastidious measure; he'll lose his head, not just the treasure,if in the breeches there are wrinkles. he was in silk arrayed,in velvet he was dressed,

had ribbons and brocade,a cross upon his chest, a fancy star, great fame-a minister, in short; and all his kin becamelords at the royal court. the other lords grew leanand suffered with their wives, the royal maid and the queenwere all but eaten alive, but weren't allowed to swat themand could not even scratch. while we can swat and blot themand kill the ones we catch. bravo! bravo! that was a treat! that is the end all fleas should meet.

point your fingers and catch 'em fine! long live our freedom! and long live wine! when freedom is the toast, my own voice i should add,were your forsaken wines only not quite so bad. you better mind your language, lad. i only fear the landlord might protest,else i should give each honored guest from our cellar a good glass. let's go! the landlord is an ass. if you provide good drinks, you shall be eulogized;but let your samples be good-sized. when i'm to judge, i'm telling him,i want my snout full to the brim.

they're from the rhineland, i presume. bring me a gimlet. what could that be for?you couldn't have the casks in the next room? the landlord keeps his toolsright there behind the door. what would you like? something that's cool? what do you mean? you got a lot of booze? i let each have what he may choose. oho! you lick your chops and start to drool. if it is up to me, i'll have a rhenish brand:there's nothing that competes with our fatherland.

now let us have some waxto make a cork that sticks. oh, is it merely parlor tricks? and you? i want a good champagneheady; i do not like it plain. not all that's foreign can be banned,for what is far is often fine. a frenchman is a thing no german man can stand,and yet we like to drink their wine. i must confess, i think the dry tastes bad,the sweet alone is exquisite! tokay will flow for you, my lad. i think, you might as well admit,good gentlemen, that these are simply jests.

tut, tut! with such distinguished gueststhat would be quite a lot to dare. so don't be modest, and declarewhat kind of wine you would prefer. i like them all, so i don't care. the grape the vine adorns,the billy goat sports horns; the wine is juicy, vines are wood,the wooden table gives wine as good. profound insight! now you perceivea miracle; only believe! now pull the stoppers and have fun! a gorgeous well for every one! be very careful lest it overrun!

we feel gigantically well,just like five hundred sows. look there how well,men are when they are free. i should like to get out of here. first watch how their bestialitywill in full splendor soon appear. help! fire! help! hell blew a vent! be quiet, friendly element! for this time it was only a drop of purgatory. you'll pay for it, and you can save your story!what do you think we are, my friend? don't dare do that a second time, you hear!

just let him leave in silence;that is what i say, gents! you have the brazen impudenceto do your hocus-pocus here? be still, old barrell! broomstick, you!will you insult us? mind your prose! just wait and see, there will be blows. i burn! i burn! it's magic; as i said.he is an outlaw. strike him dead! false images preparemirages in the air. be here and there!

where am i? what a gorgeous land! and vineyards! am i mad? and grapes right by my hand! see in the leaves that purple shape?i never saw that big a grape! fall from their eyes, illusion's band!remember how the devil joked. what's that? hah? your nose i stroked? and yours is in my hand!

the shock is more than i can bear.i think i'll faint. get me a chance what was all this? who understands? where is the scoundrel? i'm so sore,if i could only get my hands- i saw him whiz right through the cellar door,riding a flying barrel. zounds, the fright weighs on me like a thousand pounds. do you suppose the wine still flows? that was a fraud! you're asinine! i surely thought that i drank wine. but what about the grapes, i say.

who says there are no miracles today! how i detest this crazy sorcery!i should get well, you promise me, in this mad frenzy of a mess?do i need the advice of hag fakirs? and should this quackish sordidnessreduce my age by thirty years? i'm lost if that's all you could find.my hope is drowned in sudden qualm. has neither nature nor some noble mindinvented or contrived a wholesome balm? my friend, that was nice oratory!indeed, to make you young there is one way that's apter; but, i regret, that is another storyand forms quite an amazing chapter. i want to know it.

all right, you need no sorceryand no physician and no dough. just go into the fields and seewhat fun it is to dig and hoe; live simply and keep all your thoughtson a few simple objects glued; restrict yourself and eat the plainest food;live with the beasts, a beast: it is no thievery to dress the fields you work, with your own dung.that is the surest remedy: i am not used to that and can't, i am afraid,start now to work with hoe and spade. for me a narrow life like that's too small. we need the witch then after all. why just the hag with all her grime!could you not brew it-with your head!

a splendid way to waste my time!a thousand bridges i could build instead. science is not enough, nor art;in this work patience plays a part. a quiet spirit plods and plods at length;nothing but time can give the brew its strength. with all the things that go into it,it's sickening just to see them do it. the devil taught them, true enough,but he himself can't make the stuff. just see how delicate they look!this is the maid, and that the cook. it seems the lady isn't home? she went to roamaway from home, right through the chimney in the dome.

and how long will she walk the street? as long as we warm our feet. how do you like this dainty pair? they are inane beyond comparison. a conversation like this oneis just the sort of thing for which i care. now tell me, you accursed group,why do you stir that steaming mess? we cook a watery beggars' soup. you should do a brisk business. oh please throw the diceand lose, and be nice

and let me get wealthy!we are in the ditch, and if i were rich,then i might be healthy. how happy every monkey thinks he'd be,if he could play the lottery. the world and ballboth rise and fall and roll and wallow;it sounds like glass, it bursts, alas,the inside's hollow. here it is light,there still more bright, "life's mine to swallow!"dear son, i say, please keep away!you'll die first.

it's made of clayit will burst. the sieve there, chief-? if you were a thief,i'd be wise to you. look through, be brief!you know the thief, but may not say who? and here this pot? the half-witted sot!does not know the pot, does not know the kettle! you impolite beast!

take this brush at leastand sit down and settle! what blissful image is revealedto me behind this magic glass! lend me your swiftest pinions, love, that i might passfrom here to her transfigured field when i don't stay right on this spot, but, pining,dare to step forward and go near mists cloud her shape and let it disappear.the fairest image of a woman! indeed, could woman be so fair?or is this body which i see reclining heaven's quintessence from another sphere?is so much beauty found on earth? well, if a god works hard for six whole days, my friend,and then says bravo in the end, it ought to have a little worth.for now, stare to your heart's content!

i could track down for you just such a sweetwhat bliss it would be to get her consent, to marry her and be replete. i sit here like the king upon his throne:the scepter i hold here, i lack the crown alone. oh, please be so good,with sweat and with blood this crown here to lime! it's done, let it be!we chatter and see, we listen and rhyme- alas, i think i'll loose my wits. i fear that my head, too, begins to reel.

and if we score hitsand everything fits, it's thoughts that we feel. my heart and soul are catching fire.please let us go away from here! the one thing one has to admireis that their poetry is quite sincere. ow! ow! ow! ow!you damned old beast! you cursed old sow! you leave the kettle and singe the frau.you cursed old beast! what goes on here?why are you here? who are you two?who sneaked inside? come, fiery tide!their bones be fried!

in two! in two!there lies the brew. there lies the glass.a joke, my lass, the beat, you ass,for melodies from you. you know me now? you skeleton! you shrew!you know your master and your lord? what holds me? i could strike at youand shatter you and your foul monkey horde. does not the scarlet coat reveal his grace?do you not know the rooster's feather, ma'am? did i perchance conceal my face?or must i tell you who i am? forgive the uncouth greeting, thoughyou have no cloven feet, you know. and your two ravens, where are they?

for just this once you may get by,for it has been some time, i don't deny, since i have come your way,and culture which licks out at every stew extends now to the devil, too:gone is the nordic phantom that former ages saw; you see no horns, no tail or claw. and as regards the footwith which i can't dispense, that does not look the least bit suave;like other young men nowadays, i hence prefer to pad my calves. i'll loose my wits, i'll lose my brainsince squire satan has come back again. that name is out, hag! is that plain?

but why? it never gave you pain! it's dated, called a fable; men are clever,but they are just as badly off as ever: the evil one is gone, the evil ones remain.you call me baron, hag, and you look out: i am a cavalier with cavalierly charms,and my nobility don't dare to doubt! look here and you will see my coat of arms! ha! ha! that is your manner, sir!you are a jester as you always were. my friend, mark this, but don't repeat it:this is the way a witch likes to be treated. now tell me why you came in here. a good glass of the famous juice, my dear!but i must have the oldest kind:

its strength increases with each year. i got a bottle on this shelffrom which i like to nip myself; by now it doesn't even stink.i'll give you some, it has the power. but if, quite unprepared,this man should have a drink, he could, as you know well,not live another hour. he is a friend of mine, and he will take it well.the best you have is not too good for him. now draw your circle, say your spell:and fill a bumper to the brim. no, tell me why these crazy antics?the mad ado, the gestures that are frantic, the most insipid cheat-this stuffi've known and hated long enough.

relax! it's fun - a little play;don't be so serious, so sedate! such hocus-pocus is a doctor's way,of making sure the juice will operate. this you must know!from one make ten, and two let go,take three again then you'll be rich.the four you fix. from five and six,thus says the witch, make seven and eight,that does the trick; and nine is one,and ten is none. that is the witch's arithmetic.

it seems to me the old hag runs a fever. you'll hear much more before we leave her.i know, it sounds like that for many pages; i lost much time on this accursed affliction,because a perfect contradiction intrigues not only fools but also sages.this art is old and new, forsooth: it was the custom in all agesto spread illusion and not truth with three in one and one in three.they teach it twittering like birds; with fools there is no intervening.men usually believe, if only they hear words, that there mustalso be some sort of meaning. the lofty prizeof science lies

concealed today as ever.who has no thought, to him if's broughtto own without endeavor. what nonsense does she put before us?my head aches from her stupidness. it seems as if i heard a chorusof many thousand fools, no less. excellent sybil, that is quite enough!now pour the drink - just put the stuff into this bowl here. fill it, sybil, pour;my friend is safe from any injuries: he has a number of degreesand has had many drinks before what is the matter? hold it level!drink fast and it will warm you up. you are familiar with the devil,and shudder at a fiery cup?

come on! let's go! you must not rest. and may this gulp give great delight! if there is anything that you request,just let me know the next walpurgis night. here is a song; just sing it now and then,and you will feel a queer effect indeed. no! no! the paragon of womanhoodyou shall soon see alive and warm. you'll soon find, with this potion's aid,helen of troy in every maid. fair lady, may i be so freeto offer my arm and company? i'm neither a lady nor am i fair,and can go home without your care. by heaven, this young girl is fair!her like i don't know anywhere.

she is so virtuous and pure,but somewhat pert and not demure. the glow of her cheeks and her lips so redi shall not forget until i am dead. her downcast eyes, shy and yet smart,are stamped forever on my heart; her curtness and her brevitywas sheer enchanting ecstasy! get me that girl, and don't ask why? which one? she only just went by. that one! she saw her priest just now,and he pronounced her free of sin. i stood right there and listened in.she's so completely blemishless

that there was nothing to confess.over her i don't have any power. she is well past her fourteenth year. look at the gay lothario here!he would like to have every flower, and thinks each prize or pretty trickjust waits around for him to pick; but sometimes that just doesn't go. my very reverend holy joe,leave me in peace with law and right! i tell you, if you don't comply,and this sweet young blood doesn't lie between my arms this very night,at midnight we'll have parted ways. think of the limits of my might.i need at least some fourteen days

to find a handy evening. if i had peace for seven hours,i should not need the devil's powers to seduce such a little thing. you speak just like a frenchman. wait,i beg you, and don't be annoyed: what have you got when it's enjoyed?the fun is not nearly so great come quickly now before you tire,and let me lead while you perspire to knead and to prepare your dolly,the way some gallic tales describe it. i've appetite without all that. now without jokes or tit-for-tat:

i tell you, with this fair young childwe simply can't be fast or wild. we'd waste our time storming and running;we have to have recourse to cunning. get something from the angers nest!or lead me to her place of rest! get me a kerchief from her breast,a garter from my darling's knee. just so you see, it touches meand i would soothe your agony, let us not linger here and thus delay:i'll take you to her room today. and shall i see her? have her? no. to one of her neighbors she has to go.but meanwhile you may at your leisure relish the hopes of future pleasure,till you are sated with her atmosphere.

can we go now? it's early yet, i fear. get me a present for the dear! a present right away? good! he will be a hit.there's many a nice place i know with treasures buried long ago;i better look around a hit. i should give much if i could saywho was that gentleman today. he looked quite gallant, certainly,and is of noble family; that much even his forehead told-how else could he have been so bold? come in, but very quietly!

i beg you, leave and let me be! she's neater than a lot of girls i see. sweet light of dusk, guest from abovethat fills this shrine, be welcome your seize now my heart, sweet agony of lovethat languishes and feeds on hope's clear dew! what sense of calm embraces me,of order and complete content! what bounty in this poverty!and in this prison, what ravishment! welcome me now, as former ages restedwithin your open arms in grief and joy! how often was this fathers' throne contestedby eager children, prized by girl and boy! and here, perhaps, her full cheeks flushed with bliss,my darling, grateful for a christmas toy,

pressed on her grandsire's withered hand a kiss.i feel your spirit, lovely maid, of ordered bounty breathing herewhich, motherly, comes daily to your aid to teach you how a rug is best on tables laidand how the sand should on the floor appear. oh godlike hand, to you it's givento make a cottage, a kingdom of heaven. and here! what raptured shudder makes me stir?how i should love to he immured where in light dreams nature maturedthe angel that's innate in her. here lay the child, developed slowly,her tender breast with warm life fraught, and here, through weaving pure and holy,the image of the gods was wrought.

and you! alas, what brought you here?i feel so deeply moved, so queer. what do you seek? why is your heart so sore?poor faust! i do not know you any more. do magic smells surround me here?immediate pleasure was my bent, but now - in dreams of love i'm all but spent.are we mere puppets of the atmosphere? if she returned this instant from her call,how for your mean transgression you would pay! the haughty lad would be so small,lie at her feet and melt away. let's go! i see her in the lane! i'll never come again. here is a fairly decent case,i picked it up some other place.

just leave it in the chest up there.she'll go out of her mind, i swear; for i put things in it good sir,to win a better one than her. but child is child and play is play. i don't know - should i? why delay? you do not hope to save your jewel?or i'll give your lust this advice: don't waste fair daytime like this twice,nor my exertions: it is cruel. it is not simple greed, i hope!i search my head, i fret and mope- away! let's go!-it's just to make the child fulfill

your heart's desire and your will;and you stand and frown as if you had to lecture in cap and gownas if in gray there stood in front of you physics and metaphysics, too.away! it seems so close, so sultry now, and yet outside it's not so warm.i feel so strange.. i don't know how! i wish my mother would come home.a shudder grips my body, i feel chilly how fearful i am and how silly! in thule there was a king,faithful unto the grave, to whom his mistress, dying,

a golden goblet gave.nothing he held more dear, at every meal he used it;his eyes would fill with tears as often as he mused it.and when he came to dying, the towns in his realm he told,naught to his heir denying, except the go blat of gold.he dined at evenfall with all his chivalryin the ancestral hall in the castle by the sea.the old man rose at last and drank life's sunset glow,and the sacred goblet he cast into the flood below.he saw it plunging, drinking.

and sinking into the sea;his eyes were also sinking, and nevermore drank he. how did this lovely case get in my chest?i locked it after i got dressed. it certainly seems strange. and what might be in there?it might be a security left for a loan in mother's care.there is a ribbon with a key; i think i'll open it and see. what is that? god in heaven! there i never saw such fine array!these jewels! why a lord's lady could wear

these on the highest holiday.how would this necklace look on me? who owns all this? it is so fine.if those earrings were only mine! one looks quite different right away.what good is beauty, even youth? all that may be quite good and fair,but does it get you anywhere? their praise is half pity, you can be sure.. for gold contend,on gold depend all things. woe to us poor! by the pangs of despised love!by the elements of hell! i wish i knew something worseto curse by it as well!

what ails you? steady now, keep level!i never saw a face like yours today. i'd wish the devil took me straightaway,if i myself were not a devil. has something in your head gone bad?it sure becomes you raving like one mad. just think, the jewels got for margareta dirty priest took the whole set. the mother gets to see the stuffand starts to shudder, sure enough: she has a nose to smell things outin prayerbooks she keeps her snout a whiff of anything makes plainwhether it's holy or profane. she sniffed the jewelry like a ratand knew no blessings came with that "my child," she cried, "ill-gotten wealthwill soil your soul and spoil your health."

we'll give it to the mother of the lordand later get a heavenly reward." poor margaret went into a pout;she thought: a gift horse! and, no doubt, who brought it here so carefullycould not be godless, certainly. the mother called a priest at once,he saw the gems and was no dunce; he drooled and then said: "without question,your instinct is quite genuine," who overcomes himself will win.the church has a superb digestion," whole countries she has gobbled up,but never is too full to sup;" the church alone has the good healthfor stomaching ill-gotten wealth." why, everybody does: a jewand any king can do it, too.

so he picked up a clasp, necklace, and rings,like toadstools or some worthless things, and did not thank them more nor lessthan as if it were nuts or some such mess, and he promised them plenty after they diedand they were duly edified. and gretchen? she, of course, feels blue,she sits and doesn't know what to do, thinks day and night of every gemstill more of him who furnished them. my darling's grief distresses me.go, get her some new jewelry. the first one was a trifling loss oh sure, its child's play for you, boss.

just fix it all to suit my will;try on the neighbor, too, your skill. don't, devil, act like sluggish pastelget some new jewels and make haste! yes, gracious lord, it is a pleasure. a fool in love just doesn't careand, just to sweeten darling's leisure, he'd make sun, moon,and stars into thin air. may god forgive my husband!he was certainly not good to me. he went into the world to roamand left me on the straw at home. god knows that i have never crossed him,and loved him dearly; yet i lost him. perhaps - the thought kills me - he died!if it were only certified!

dame martha! gretchen, what could it be? my legs feel faint, though not with pain:i found another case, again right in my press, of ebony,with things more precious all around than was the first case that i found. you must not show them to your mother,she'd tell the priest as with the other. oh look at it! oh see! please do! you lucky, lucky creature, you! unfortunately, it's not meetto wear them in the church or street.

just come here often to see me,put on the jewels secretly, walk up and down an hour before the mirror here,and we shall have a good time, dear. then chances come, perhaps a holiday,when we can bit by bit, gem after gem display. a necklace first, then a pearl in your ear;your mother-we can fool her, or she may never hear. who bought the cases and has not appeared?it certainly seems very weird. oh god, my mother - is it her? it is a stranger - come in, sir! i'll come right in and be so free,if the ladies will grant me the liberty. to martha schwerdtlein i wished to speak.

it's i. what does your honor seek? i know you now, that satisfies me.you have very elegant company; forgive my intrusion; i shall come back soonif you don't mind, this afternoon. oh goodness gracious! did you hear?he thinks you are a lady, dear! i'm nothing but a poor young maid;you are much too kind, i am afraid; the gems and jewels are not my own. it is not the jewelry alone!your noble eyes-indeed, it is your whole way! how glad i am that i may stay! what is your errand? please, good sir!

i wish i had better news for herand don't get cross with your poor guest: your husband is dead and sends his best is dead? the faithful heart! oh dear!my husband is dead! i shall faint right here. oh my dear woman! don't despair! let me relate the sad affair. i should sooner never be a bride:the grief would kill me if he died. joy needs woe, woe requires joy. tell me of the end of my sweet boy. in padua, in italy,he is buried in st. anthony

in ground that has been duly blessedfor such cool, everlasting rest. surely, there is something more you bring. one solemn and sincere request: for his poor soul they shouldthree hundred masses sing. that's all, my purse is empty,though not of course my breast. what? not a gem? no work of art?i am sure, deep in his bag the poorest wanderer keeps some remembrance that gives pleasure,and sooner starves than yields this treasure. madam, don't doubtit breaks my heart.and you may rest assured, he was no squanderer. he knew his errors well, and he repented,though his ill fortune was the thing he most lamented.

that men are so unfortunate and poor!i'll say some requiems and for his soul i'll pray. you would deserve a marriage right away,for you are charming, i am sure. oh no! i must wait to be wed. if not a husband, have a lover instead.it is one of heaven's greatest charms to hold such a sweetheart in one's arms. that is not the custom around here. custom or not, its done, my dear. please tell me more! i stood besides the bed he died on;

it was superior to manure, of rotted straw,and yet he died a christian, pure, and found that there was more on his unsettled score."i'm hateful," he cried; "wicked was my life, as i forsook my trade and also left my wife.to think of it now makes me die. if only she forgave me even so!" the darling! i forgave him long ago. "and yet, god knows,she was far worse than i. he lied - alas,lied at the brink of death! surely, he made up things with dying breath,if ever i saw death before.

"to pass the time, i could not look around," he said:"first she got children, then they needed bread when i say bread, i mean much more-and she never gave peace for me to eat my share." did he forget my love, my faithfulness and care,and how i slaved both day and night? oh no, he thought of that with all his might;he said: "when we left malta for another trip, i prayed for wife and children fervently,so heaven showed good grace to me, and our boat soon caught a turkish shipthat bad the mighty sultan's gold on it. then fortitude got its reward,and i myself was given, as was fit, my share of the great sultan's hoard." oh how? oh where? might it be buried now?

the winds have scattered it, and who knows how?a pretty girl in naples, sweet and slim, cared for him when he was without a friendand did so many deeds of love for him that he could feel it till his blessed end. the rogue! he robbed children and wife!no misery, no lack of bread could keep him from his shameful life! you see! for that he now is dead..if i were in your place, i'd pause to mourn him for a year, as meet,and meanwhile i would try to find another sweet. oh god, the way my first one wasi'll hardly find another to be miner how could there be a little fool that's fonder?only he liked so very much to wander,

and foreign women, and foreign wine,and that damned shooting of the dice well, well! it could have been quite nice,had he been willing to ignore as many faults in you, or more.on such terms, i myself would woo and willingly change rings with you! the gentleman is pleased to jest. i better get away from here:she'd keep the devil to his word, i fear. and how is your heart? still at rest? what do you mean, good sir? you good, innocent child!

good-by, fair ladies! good-by.- oh, not so fast and wild! i'd like to have it certified. that my sweetheart was buried,and when and where he died. i always hate to see things done obliquelyand want to read his death in our weekly. yes, lady, what is testified by twois everywhere known to be true; and i happen to have a splendid matewhom i'll take along to the magistrate. i'll bring him here. indeed, please do!

and will this maiden be here, too? a gallant lad! has traveled much with meand shows young ladies all courtesy. i would have to blush before him, poor thing. not even before a king! behind the house, in my garden, then,tonight we shall expect the gentlemen. how is it? well? can it be soon? oh bravo! now you are on fire?soon gretchen will still your desire. at martha's you may seeher later this afternoon: that woman seems expressly madeto ply the pimps' and gypsies' trade.

oh good! but something's wanted from us, too. one good turn makes another due. we merely have to go and testifythat the remains of her dear husband lie in padua where anthony once sat. now we shall have to go there.now that was smart of you! sancta simplicitast! who ever thought of that?just testify, and hang whether it's true! if you know nothing better,this plan has fallen through. oh, holy man! you are no less!is this the first time in your life that you

have testified what is not true?of god and all the world, and every single part, of man and all that stirs inside his bead and heartyou gave your definitions with power and finesse, with brazen cheek and haughty breathand if you stop to think, i guess, you knew as much of that, you must confess,as you know now of mr. schwerdtlein's death. you are and you remain a sophist and a liar. yes, if one's knowledge were not just a little higher.tomorrow, won't you, pure as air, deceive poor gretchen and declareyour soul's profoundest love, and swear? with all my heart. good and fair!

then faithfulness and love eternaland the super-almighty urge supernal - will that come from your heart as well? leave off! it will.- when, lost in feeling,for this urge, for this surge i seek a name, find none, and, reelingall through the world with all my senses gasping, at all the noblest words i'm graspingand call this blaze in which i flame, infinite, eternal eternally -is that a game or devilish jugglery? i am still right. listen to me, i beg of you, and don't wear out my lung:whoever would be right and only has a tongue,

always will be. come on! i'm sick of prating, spare your voice,for you are right because i have no choice. i feel it well, good sir, you're only kind to me:you condescend - and you abash. it is the traveler's courtesyto put up graciously with trash. i know too well, my poor talk never cangive pleasure to a traveled gentleman. one glance from you,one word gives far more pleasure than all the wisdom of this world don't incommode yourself!how could you kiss it? you? it is songly, is so rough.

but all the things that i have had to do,for mother i can't do enough. and you, sir, travel all the time, you say? alas, our trade and duty keeps us going!though when one leaves the tears may well be flowing, one never is allowed to stay. while it may do in younger yearsto sweep around the world, feel free and suave, there is the time when old age nears,and then to creep alone, a bachelor, to one's grave. that's something everybody fears. with dread i see it far away. then, my dear sir, consider while you may.

yes, out of sight is out of mind.you are polite, you can't deny; and often you have friends and findthat they are cleverer than i. oh dearest, trust me,what's called clever on this earth is often vain and rash rather than clever. what? oh, that the innocent and simple neverappreciate themselves and their own worth! that meekness and humility, supremeamong the gifts of loving, lavish nature - if you should think of me one moment only,i shall have time enough to think of you and dream. are you so often lonely?

yes; while our household is quite small,you see, i have to do it all. we have no maid, so i must cook, and sweep, and knit,and sew, and run early and late; and mother is in all of itso accurate! not that it's necessary; our need is not so great.we could afford much more than many another: my father left a tidy sum to mother,a house and garden near the city gate. but now my days are rather plain:a soldier is my brother, my little sister dead. sore was, while she was living,the troubled life i led; but i would gladly go through all of it again:she was so dear to me.

an angel, if like you. i brought her up, and she adored me, too.she was born only after father's death; mother seemed near her dying breath,as stricken as she then would lie, though she got well again quite slowly, by and by.she was so sickly and so slight, she could not nurse the little mite; so i would tend her all alone,with milk and water; she became my own. upon my arms and in my lapshe first grew friendly, tumbled, and grew up. you must have felt the purest happiness. but also many hours of distress.the baby's cradle stood at night

beside my bed, and if she stirred i'd wake,i slept so light. now i would have to feed her, now i'd take her into my bed, now i'd riseand dandling pace the room to calm the baby's cries. and i would wash before the sun would rise,fret in the market and over the kitchen flame, tomorrow as today, always the same.one's spirits, sir, are not always the best, but one can relish meals and relish rest. poor woman has indeed a wretched fate:a bachelor is not easy to convert. for one like you the job is not too great;you might convince me if you are alert. be frank, dear sir, so far you have not found?has not your heart in some way yet been bound?

a hearth one owns and a good wife, we're told,are worth as much as pearls and gold. i mean,have you not ever had a passion? i always was receivedin the most friendly fashion. would say: weren't you everin earnest in your breast? with women one should neverpresume to speak in jest. oh, you don't understand. i'm sorry i'm so blind!but i do understand - that you are very kind. oh little angel, you did recognizeme as i came into the garden? did you not notice? i cast down my eyes.

my liberty you're then prepared to pardon? what insolence presumed to sayas you left church the other day? i was upset, i did not know such daring;and no one could have spoken ill of me. i thought that something in my bearingmust have seemed shameless and unmaidenly. he seemed to have the sudden feelingthat this wench could be had without much dealing. let me confess, i didn't mow that therewere other feelings stirring in me, and they grew; but i was angry with myself, i swear,that i could not get angrier with you. sweet darling! let me do this!

a nosegay? or what shall it be? no, it is just a game. go, you will laugh at me. he loves me... what do you murmur? he loves me - loves me not. you gentle countenance of heaven! loves me - not - loves me - not he loves me.

yes, my child. let this sweet flower's wordbe as a god's word to you. he loves you. do you know what this means?he loves you. my skin creeps. oh, shudder nott but let this glance,and let this clasp of hands tell you what is unspeakable:to yield oneself entirely and feel a rapture which must be eternal.eternal! for its end would be despair. no, no end! no end! the night draws near. yes, and we want to go.

i should ask you to tarry even so,but this place simply is too bad: it is as if nobody hadwork or labor except to spy all day long on his neighbor,and one gets talked about, whatever life one leads. and our couple? up that path i heard them whirr -frolicking butterflies. he is taking to her. and she to him.that's how the world proceeds. he comes. oh rogue, you're teasing me.now i see.

dearest man! i love you from my heart. who's there? a friend. a beast! the time has come to part. yes, it is late, good sir. may i not take you home? my mother would... - farewell! must i leave then? farewell.

adieu. come soon again. dear god, the things he thought and said!how much goes on in a man's head! abashed, i merely acquiesceand cannot answer, except yes! i am a poor, dumb child and cannot seewhat such a man could find in me. exalted spirit, all you gave me, allthat i have asked. and it was not in vain that amid flames you turned your face toward me.you gave me royal nature as my own dominion, strength to experience her, enjoy her. notthe cold amazement of a visit only you granted me, but let me penetrateinto her heart as into a close friend's.

you lead the hosts of all that is alivebefore my eyes, teach me to know my brothers in quiet bushes and in air and water.and when the storm roars in the wood and creaks, the giant fir tree, falling, hits and smashesthe neighbor branches and the neighbor trunks, and from its hollow thud the mountain thunders,then you lead me to this safe cave and show me to myself, and all the most profoundand secret wonders of my breast are opened. and when before my eyes the pure moon risesand passes soothingly, there float to me from rocky cliffs and out of dewy bushesthe silver shapes of a forgotten age, and soften meditation's somber joy.alas, that man is granted nothing perfect i now experience. with this happiness

which brings me close and closer to the gods, you gave me the companion whom i canforego no more, though with cold impudence he makes me small in my own eyes and changesyour gifts to nothing with a few words' breath. he kindles in my breast a savage fireand keeps me thirsting after that fair image. thus i reel from desire to enjoyment,and in enjoyment languish for desire. have you not led this life quite long enough?how can it keep amusing you? it may be well for once to try such stuffbut then one turns to something new. i wish that you had more to doand would not come to pester me. all right. i gladly say adieuyou should not say that seriously.

a chap like you, unpleasant, mad, and cross,would hardly be a serious loss. all day long one can work and slave away.and what he likes and what might cause dismay, it simply isn't possible to say. that is indeed the proper tone!he wants my thanks for being such a pest. if i had left you wretch alone,would you then live with greater zest? was it not i that helped you to disown,and partly cured, your feverish unrest? yes, but for me, the earthly zonewould long be minus one poor guest. and now, why must you sit like an old owlin caves and rocky clefts, and scowl? from soggy moss and dripping stones you lap your foodjust like a toad, and sit and brood.

a fair, sweet way to pass the time!still steeped in your doctoral slime! how this sojourn in the wildernessrenews my vital force, you cannot guess. and if you apprehended this,you would be devil enough, to envy me my bliss. a supernatural delight!to lie on mountains in the dew and night, embracing earth and sky in raptured reeling,to swell into a god-in one's own feeling- to probe earth's marrow with vague divination,sense in your breast the whole work of creation, with haughty strength enjoy, i know not what,then overflow into all things with love so hot, gone is all earthly inhibition,and then the noble intuition- of - need i say of what emission?

shame! that does not meet with your acclaim;you have the right to cry indignant: shame! one may not tell chaste ears what, beyond doubt,the chastest heart could never do without. and, once for all, i don't grudge you the pleasureof little self-deceptions at your leisure; but it can't last indefinitely.already you are spent again, and soon you will be rent again,by madness and anxiety. enough of that. your darling is distraught.sits inside, glum and in despair, she can't put you out of her mind and thoughtand loves you more than she can bear. at first your raging love was past control,as brooks that overflow when filled with melted snow;

you poured it out into her soul,but now your little brook is low. instead of posing in the wood,it seems to me it might be good if for her love our noble lordgave the poor monkey some reward. time seems to her intolerably long;she stands at her window and sees the clouds in the sky drift over the city wall and go by."were i a little bird!" thus goes her song for days and half the night long.once she may be cheerful, most of the time sad, once she has spent her tears,then she is calm, it appears, and always loves you like mad. serpent! snake!

if only i catch the rake! damnable fiend! get yourself hence,and do not name the beautiful maid! let not the lust for her sweet limbs invadeand ravish once again my frenzied sense! what do you mean? she thinks you've run away;and it is half-true, i must say. i am near her, however far i be,she'll never be forgotten and ignored; indeed, i am consumed with jealousythat her lips touch the body of the lord. i'm jealous of my friend when she exposesthe pair of twins that feed among the roses. begone, pander! fine! your wrath amuses me.the god who fashioned man and maid

was quick to recognize the noblest trade,and procured opportunity go on! it is a woeful pain!you're to embrace your love again, not sink into the tomb. what are the joys of heaven in ber arms?let me embrace her, feel her charms do i not always sense her doom?am i not fugitive? without a home? inhuman; without aim or rest,as, like the cataract, from rock to rock i foam, raging with passion, toward the abyss?and nearby, she- with childlike blunt desires inside her cottage on the alpine leas,and everything that she requires was in her own small world at ease.and i, whom the gods hate and mock,

was not satisfiedthat i seized the rock and smashed the mountainside.her-her peace i had to undermine. you, hell, desired this sacrifice upon your shrine.help, devil, shorten this time of dread. what must be done, come let it be.let then her fate come shattering on my head, and let her perish now with me. how now it boils again and how you shout.go in and comfort her, you dunce. where such a little head sees no way out,he thinks the end must come at once. long live who holds out undeterred!at other times you have the devil's airs. in all the world there's nothing more absurdthan is a devil who despairs.

my peace is gone,my heart is sore; i find it neverand nevermore. where him i not havethere is my grave. this world is allturned into gall. and my poor headis quite insane, and my poor mindis rent with pain. for him only i lookfrom my window seat, for him only i goout into the street. his lofty gait,his noble guise,

the smile of his mouth,the force of his eyes, and his words' flow -enchanting bliss the touch of his hand,and, oh, his kiss. my bosom surgesfor him alone, oh that i could clasp himand hold him so, and kiss himto my heart's content, till in his kissesi were spent. promise me, heinrich. whatever i can!

how is it with your religion, please admityour certainly are a very good man, but i believe you don't think much of it. leave that, my child. i love you, do not fearand would give all for those whom i hold dear, would not rob anyone of church or creed. that is not enough,it is faith we need. do we? oh that i had some influence!you don't respect the holy sacraments. i do respect them. but without desire.

the mass and confession you do not require.do you believe in god? my darling who may say i believe in god?ask priests and sages, their reply looks like sneers that mock and prodthe one who asked the question. then you deny him there? do not mistake me, you who are so fair.him - who may name? and who proclaim:"i believe in him"? who may feel,who dare reveal in words: "i believe him not"?the all-embracing, the all-sustaining,does he not embrace and sustain

you, me, himself?does not the heaven vault above? is the earth not firmly based down here?and do not, friendly, eternal stars rise?do we not look into each other's eyes and all in you is surgingto your head and heart, and weaves in timeless mystery,unseeable, yet seen, around you? then let it fill your heart entirely,and when your rapture in this feeling is complete, call it then as you will,call it bliss! heart! love! god! i do not have a namefor this. feeling is all; names are but sound and smokebefogging heaven's blazes.

those are very fair and noble phrases;the priest says something, too, like what you spoke- only his words are not quite so - wherever you go,all hearts under the heavenly day say it, each in its own way;why not i in mine? when one listens to you, one might inclineto let it pass - but i can't agree, for you have no christianity. dear child! it has long been a grief to meto see you in such company. why?

the man that goes around with youseems hateful to me through and through: in all my life there's not a thing that gave my heart as sharp a stingas his repulsive eyes. sweet doll, don't fear him anywise. his presence makes me feel quite ill.i bear all other men good will; but just as to see you i languish,this man fills me with secret anguish; he seems a knave one should not trust.may god forgive me if i am unjust. there must be queer birds, too, you know. but why live with them even so?whenever he comes in,

he always wears a mocking grinand looks half threatening: one sees, he has no sympathy for anything;it is written on his very face that he thinks love is a disgrace. in your arm i feel good and free, warm and abandoned as can be; alas, my heart and feelingsare choked when he comes, too. oh, you foreboding angel, you. it makes my heart so sorethat, when he only comes our way; i feel i do not love you any more;and where he is, i cannot pray.

it eats into my heart. oh you,dear heinrich, must feel that way, too. that is just your antipathy. i must go. will there never beat your sweet bosom one hour of rest when soul toucheson soul and breast on breast? had i my own room when i sleep,i should not bolt the door tonight; but mother's slumber is not deep,and if she found us thus - oh fright, right then and there i should drop dead. my angel, if that's what you dread,here is a bottle. merely shake

three drops into her cup,and she won't easily wake up. what should i not do for your sake?it will not harm her if one tries it? dear, if it would, would i advise it? when i but look at you, i thrill,i don't know why, my dear, to do your will; i have already done so much for youthat hardly anything seems left to do. the monkey! is she gone? you spied? are you surprised?i listened and i understood our learned doctor just was catechized.i hope that it may do you good.

the girls are quite concerned to be apprisedif one is pious and obeys tradition. if yes, they trustthey can rely on his submission. you monster will not see nor ownthat this sweet soul, in loyalty, full of her own creedwhich alone, she trusts, can bring salvation, lives in agonyto think her lover lost, however she may plead. you supersensual, sensual wooer,a maiden leads you by the nose. you freak of filth and fire! evildoer! and what a knowledge of physiognomy she shows.she feels, she knows not what, whenever i'm about; she finds a hidden meaning in my eyes:i am a demon, beyond doubt,

perhaps the devil, that is her surmise.well, tonight-? what's that to you? i have my pleasure in it, too. of barbara you haven't heard? i rarely see people - no, not a word. well, sibyl just told me in front of the school:that girl has at last been made a fool. that comes from having airs. how so? it stinks!she is feeding two when she eats and drinks.

oh! at last she has got what was coming to her.she stuck to that fellow like a burr. that was some prancing,in the village, and dancing, she was always the first in line;and he flirted with her over pastries and wine; and she thought that she looked divine-but had no honor, no thought of her name, and took his presents without any shame.the way they slobbered and carried on; but now the little flower is gone. poor thing! that you don't say!when girls like us would be spinning away,

and mother kept us at home every night,she was with her lover in sweet delight on the bench by the door, in dark alleys they were,and the time was never too long for her. now let her crouch and let her bend downand do penance in a sinners' gown! he will surely take her to be his wife. he would be a fool! a handsome boywill elsewhere find more air and joy. he's already gone. that is not fair! and if she gets him, let her beware:her veil the boys will throw to the floor, and we shall strew chaffin front of her door.

how i once used to scold alongwhen some poor woman had done wrong. how for another person's shamei found not words enough of blame. how black it seemed - i made it blacker still,and yet not black enough to suit my will. i blessed myself, would boast and grinand now myself am caught in sin. yet - everything that brought me here,god, was so good, oh, was so dear! incline,mother of pain, your face in grace to my despair.a sword in your heart, with pain rent apart,up to your son's dread death you stare. on the father your eyes,you send up sighs

for your and your son's despair. who knows my woes -despair in every bone! how my heart is full of anguish,how i tremble, how i languish, know but you, and you alone.wherever i may go, what woe, what woe, what woeis in my bosom aching! scarcely alone am i,i cry, i cry, i cry; my heart in me is breaking.the pots in front of my window i watered with tears as the dew,when early in the morning

i broke these flowers for youwhen bright into my room the sun his first rays shed,i sat in utter gloom already on my bed. help! rescue me from shame and death! your face in grace to my despair! when i would sit at a drinking bout, where all had much to brag about,and many fellows raised their voice to praise the maidens of their choice,glass after glass was drained with toasting. i listened smugly to their boasting.my elbow propped up on the table,

and sneered at fable after fable.i'd stroke my beard and smile and say, holding my bumper in my hand:each may be nice in her own way, but is there one in the whole landlike sister gretchen to outdo her, one that could hold a candle to her?hear, hear! clink! clink! it went around; and some would cry: "it's true, yes sir,there is no other girl like her!" the braggarts sat without a sound. and now - i could tear out my hairand dash my brain out in despair! his nose turned up, a scamp can face me,with taunts and sneers he can disgrace me; and i should sit, like one in debt,each chance remark should make me sweat!

i'd like to grab them all and maul them,but liars i could never call them. what's coming there? what sneaks in view?if i mistake not, there are two. if it is he, i'll spare him not,he shall not living leave this spot. how from the window of that sacristy the light of the eternal lamp is glimmering,and weak and weaker sideward shimmering, as night engulfs it like the sea.my heart feels like this nightly street. and i feel like a cat in heat, that creeps around a fire escapepressing against the wall its shape. i feel quite virtuous, i confess,a little thievish lust, a little rammishness.

thus i feel spooking through each veinthe wonderful walpurgis night. in two days it will come again,and waking then is pure delight. and will the treasure that gleams over thererise in the meantime up into the air? quite soon you may enjoy the pleasureof taking from the pot the treasure. the other day i took a squintand saw fine lion dollars in't. not any jewelry, not a ringto adorn my beloved girl? i did see something like a string,or something like it, made of pearl oh, that is fine, for it's unpleasantto visit her without a present. it should not cause you such distresswhen you have gratis such success.

now that the sky gleams with its starry throng,prepare to hear a work of art: i shall sing her a moral songto take no chance we fool her heart. it's scarcely day.oh, katie, say, why do you staybefore your lover's door? leave now, leave now!for in you'll go a maid, i know,come out a maid no more. you ought to shunthat kind of fun; once it is done,good night, you poor, poor thing. for your own sakeyou should not make

love to a rakeunless you have the ring. whom would you lure? god's element!rat-catching piper! oh, perdition! the devil take your instrument!the devil then take the musician! the either is all smashed.it is beyond repair. now let's try splitting skulls.beware! don't withdraw, doctor! quick, don't tarry!stick close to me, i'll lead the way. unsheathe your toothpick, don't delay;thrust out at him, and i shall parry. then parry that! of course.

and that. i think the devil must be in this fight.what could that be? my hand is getting lame. thrust home! oh god! the rogue is tame.now hurry hence, for we must disappear: a murderous clamor rises instantly, and while the police does not trouble me,the blood ban is a thing i fear. come out! come out! quick! bring a light.

they swear and scuffle, yell and fight. there is one dead already, see. the murderers - where did they run? who lies there? your own mother's son. almighty god! what misery! i'm dying. that is quickly said,and still more quickly done. why do you women wail in dread?come here, listen to me. my gretchen, you are still quite green,not nearly smart enough or keen,

you do not do things right.in confidence, i should say more: since after all you are a whore,be one with all your might. my brother! god! what frightful shame! leave the lord god out of this game.what has been done, alas, is done, and as it must, it now will run.you started secretly with one, soon more will come to join the fun,and once a dozen lays you down, you might as well invite the town.when shame is born and first appears, it is an underhand delight,and one drags the veil of night over her head and ears;one is tempted to put her away.

but as she grows, she gets more bold,walks naked even in the day, though hardly fairer to behold.the more repulsive grows her sight, the more she seeks day's brilliant light.the time i even now discern when honest citizens will turn,harlot, away from you and freeze as from a corpse that breeds disease.your heart will flinch, your heart will falter when they will look you in the face.you'll wear no gold, you'll wear no lace, nor in the church come near the altaryou will no longer show your skill at dances, donning bow and frill,but in dark comers on the side with beggars and cripples you'll seek to hide;and even if god should at last forgive,

be cursed as long as you may live! ask god to show your own soul grace.don't make it with blasphemies still more base. that i could lay my hands on you,you shriveled, pimping bugaboo, then, i hope, i might truly winforgiveness for my every sin. my brother! this is agony! i tell you, do not bawl at me.when you threw honor overboard, you pierced my heart more than the sword.now i shall cross death's sleeping span to god, a soldier and an honest man. how different you felt, gretchen,when in innocence

you came before this altar;and from the well-worn little book you prattled prayers,half childish games, half god in your heart!gretchen! where are your thoughts?and in your heart what misdeed?do you pray for your mother's soul that went because of you from sleep to lasting, lasting pain?upon your threshold, whose blood? and underneath your heart,does it not stir and swell, frightened and frightening youwith its foreboding presence? oh! 0h!that i were rid of all the thoughts,

which waver in me to and froagainst me! dies irae, dies illasolvet saeclum in favilla. wrath grips you.the great trumpet sounds. the graves are quaking.and your heart, resurrectedfrom ashen calm to flaming tortures, flares up. would i were far!i feel as if the organ had taken my breath,as if the song

dissolved my heart! judex ergo cum sedebit,quidquid latet adparebit, nil inultum remanebit. i feel so close.the stony pillars imprison me.the vault above presses on me.- air! hide yourself. sin and shamedo not stay hidden. air? light?woe unto you! quid sum miser tunc dicturus?quem patronum rogaturus?

cum vix justus sit securus. the transfigured turntheir countenance from you. to hold out their hands to youmakes the pure shudder. woe! quid sum miser tunc dicturus? neighbor! your smelling salts! how would you like a broomstick now to fly?i wish i had a billy goat that's tough. for on this road we still have to climb high. as long as i feel fresh, and while my legs are spry,this knotted staff seems good enough.

why should we shun each stumbling block?to creep first through the valleys' lovely maze, and then to scale this wall of rockfrom which the torrent foams in silver haze there is the zest that spices our ways.around the birches weaves the spring, even the fir tree feels its spell:should it not stir in. our limbs as well? of all that i don't feel a thing.in me the winter is still brisk, i wish my path were graced with frost and snow.how wretchedly the moon's imperfect disk arises now with its red, tardy glow,and is so dim that one could bump one's head at every step against a rock or tree!let's use a will-o'-the-wisp instead! i see one there that bums quite merrily.hello there i would you come and join us, friend?

why blaze away to no good end?please be so kind and show us up the hill! i hope my deep respect will help me forcemy generally flighty will; for zigzag is the rule in our course. hear! hear! it's man you like to imitate!now, in the devil's name, go straight - or i shall blow your flickering life span out. you are the master of the house, no doubt,and i shall try to serve you nicely. but don't forget, the mountain is magic-mad today,and if will-o'-the-wisp must guide you on your way. you must not take things too precisely. in the sphere of dream and spellwe have entered now indeed.

have some pride and guide us wellthat we get ahead with speed in the vast deserted spaces!see the trees behind the trees, see how swiftly they change places_and the cliffs that bow with ease, craggy noses, long and short,how they snore and how they snort! through the stones and through the leas tumble brooks of every sort.is it splash or melodies? is it love that wails and prays,voices of those heavenly days? what we hope and what we love!echoes and dim memories of forgotten times come back."oo-hoo! shoo-hoo!" thus they squawk,

screech owl, plover, and the hawk;did they all stay up above? are those salamanders crawling?bellies bloated, long legs sprawling! and the roots, as serpents, coilfrom the rocks through sandy soil, with their eerie bonds would scare us,block our path and then ensnare us! hungry as a starving leech,their strong polyp's tendrils reach for the wanderer. and in swarmsmice of myriad hues and forms storm through moss and heath and lea.and a host of fireflies throng about and improvisethe most maddening company. tell me: do we now stand still,or do we go up the hill?

everything now seems to mill,rocks and trees and faces blend, will-o'-the-wisps grow and extendand inflate themselves at will. grip my coat and hold on tight!here is such a central height where one sees, and it amazes,in the mountain, mammon's blazes. how queer glimmers a dawnlike sheenfaintly beneath this precipice, and plays into the dark ravineof the near bottomless abyss. here mists arise, there vapors spread,and here it gleams deep in the mountain, then creeps along, a tender thread,and gushes up, a glistening fountain. here it is winding in a tangle,with myriad veins the gorges blaze,

and here in this congested anglea single stream shines through the haze. there sparks are flying at our right,as plentiful as golden sand. but look! in its entire heightthe rock becomes a firebrand. sir mammon never spares the lightto hold the feast in proper fashion. how lucky that you saw this sight!i hear the guests approach in wanton passion. the tempests lash the air and rave,and with gigantic blows they hit my shoulders. you have to clutch the ribs of those big hoary boulders,or they will hurtle you to that abysmal grave. a fog blinds the night with its hood.do you hear the crashes in the wood? frightened, the owls are scattered.hear how the pillars

of ever green castles are shattered.quaking and breaking of branches! the trunks' overpowering groaning!the roots' creaking and moaning! in a frightfully tangled fallthey crash over each other, one and all, and through the ruin-covered abyssesthe frenzied air bowls and hisses. do you hear voices up high?in the distance and nearby? the whole mountain is afirewith a furious magic choir. the witches ride to blocksberg's top,the stubble is yellow, and green the crop. they gather on the mountainside,sir urian comes to preside. we are riding over crag and brink,the witches fart, the billy goats stink.

old baubo comes alone right now,she is riding on a mother sow. give honor to whom honor's due!dame baubo, lead our retinue! a real swine and mother, too,the witches' crew will follow you. which way did you come? by the ilsenstone.i peeped at the owl who was roosting alone. did she ever makes eyes! oh, go to hell!why ride so pell-mell? see how she has flayed me!the wounds she made me! the way is wide, the way is long;just see the frantic pushing throng!

the broomstick pokes, the pitchfork thruststhe infant chokes, the mother bursts. slow as the snail's is our pace,the women are ahead and race; when it goes to the devil's place,by a thousand steps they win the race. if that is so, we do not mind it:with a thousand steps the women find it; but though they rush, we do not care:with one big jump the men get there. come on, come on from rocky lake! we'd like to join you and partake. we wash, but though we are quite clean,we're barren as we've always been. the wind is hushed, the star takes flight,the dreary moon conceals her light.

as it whirls by, the wizards' choirscatters a myriad sparks of fire. halt, please! halt, ho! who calls out of the cleft below? take me along! take me along!i've been climbing for three hundred years, and yet the peak i cannot find.but i would like to join my kind. the stick and broom can make you float,so can pitchfork and billy goat; who cannot rise today to soar,that man is doomed for evermore. i move and move and try and try;how did the others get so high? at home i'm restless through and through,and now shall miss my chance here, too.

the salve gives courage to the witch,for sails we use; a rag and switch, a tub's a ship, if you know how;if you would ever fly, fly now! we near the peak, we fly around.now sweep downâ· low over the ground, and cover up the heath's vast regionswith witches' swanns and wizards' legions. they throng and push, they rush and clatter.they hiss and whirl, they pull and chatter. it glistens, sparks, and stinks and flashes;those are indeed the witches' airs! stay close to me, or we'll be solitaires!where are you? here. so far? almost a loss!then i must show them who is boss.

back! squire nick is coming!back, sweet rabble! slump! here, doctor, take a hold! and now in one big jumplet's leave behind this noisy crowd; even for me it's much too loud. on that side is a lightwith quite a special flare, let's penetrate the bushes' shroud;come, come! now let us slink in there! spirit of contradiction! go on! i'll follow him.i must say, it's exceptionally bright to wander to the blocksberg in the walpurgis night,to isolate ourselves to follow out some whim. you see that multicolored flare?a cheerful club is meeting there: in small groups one is not alone.

i'd rather be up there: around that stonethe fires blaze; they have begun; the crowds throng to the evil onewhere many riddles must be solved. but many new ones are evolved.leave the great world, let it run riot, and let us stay where it is quiet.it's something that has long been done, to fashion little worlds within the bigger one.i see young witches there, completely nude, and old ones who are veiled as shrewdly.just for my sake, don't treat them rudely; it's little effort and great fun!there are some instruments that grind and grit. damnable noise! one must get used to it.come on! come on! please do not fret! i'll lead the way and take you to this place,and you will be quite grateful yet!

what do you say? there isn't enough space?just look! you barely see the other end. a hundred fires in a row, my friend! they dance, they chat,they cook, they drink, they court; now you just tell mewhere there's better sport! when you will introduce us at this revel,will you appear a sorcerer or devil? i generally travel, without showing my station,but on a gala day one shows one's decoration. i have no garter i could show,but here the cloven foot is honored, as you know do you perceive that snail? it comes, though it seems stiff;for with its, eager, groping face

it knows me with a single whiff. though i'd conceal myself,they'd know me in this place. come on! from flame to flame we'll make our tour,i am the go-between, and you the wooer. old gentlemen, why tarry outside? enter!i'd praise you if i found you in the center, engulfed by youthful waves and foam;you are alone enough when you are home. who ever thought nations were true,though you have served them with your hands and tongue; for people will, as women do,reserve their greatest favors for the young. now they are far from what is sage;the old ones should be kept in awe; for, truly, when our word was law,then was indeed the golden age.

we, too, had surely ample wits,and often did things that we shouldn't; but now things are reversed and go to bits,just when we changed our mind and wished they wouldn't. today; who even looks at any bookthat makes some sense and is mature? and our younger generation - look,you never saw one that was so cocksure. i think the judgment day must soon draw nigh,for this is the last time i can attend this shrine; and as my little cask runs dry,the world is certain to decline. please, gentlemen, don't pass like that!don't miss this opportunity! look at my goods attentively:there is a lot to marvel at. and my shop has a special charm -you will not find its peer on earth:

all that i sell has once done harmto man and world and what has worth. there is no dagger here which has not gored;no golden cup from which, to end a youthful life, a fatal poison was not poured;no gems that did not help to win another's wife; no sword but broke the peace with sly attack,by stabbing, for example, a rival in the back. dear cousin, that's no-good in times like these!what's done is done; what's done is trite. you better switch to novelties,for novelties alone excite. i must not lose my head, i swear;for this is what i call a fair. this eddy whirls to get above, and you are shoved,though you may think you shove.

and who is that? that little madam?that's lilith. lilith? the first wife of adam. watch out and shun her captivating tresses:she likes to use her never-equaled hair to lure a youth into her luscious lair,and he won't lightly leave her lewd caresses. there two sit, one is young, one old;they certainly have jumped and trolled! they did not come here for a rest.there is another dance. come, let us do our best. a pretty dream once came to mein which i saw an apple tree;

two pretty apples gleamed on it,they lured me, and i climbed a bit. you find the little apples nicesince first they grew in paradise. and i am happy telling youthat they grow in my garden, too. a wanton dream once came to mein which i saw a cloven tree. it had the most tremendous hole;though it was big, it pleased my soul. i greet you with profound delight,my gentle, cloven-footed knight! provide the proper grafting-twig,if you don't mind the hole so big. damnable folk! how dare you make such fuss!have we not often proved to you that tales of walking ghosts cannot be true?and now you dance just like the rest of us!

what does he want at our fair? oh, he! you find him everywhere.what others dance, he must assess; no step has really occurred, unlesshis chatter has been duly said. and what annoys him most,is when we get ahead. if you would turn in circles, in endless repetition,as he does all the time in his old mill, perhaps he would not take it ill,especially if you would first get his permission. you still are therel oh nol that's without precedent.please go! have we not brought enlightenment? i tell you spirits to your face,the spirit's despotism's a disgrace: my spirit can't make rules for it.

today there's nothing i can do;but traveling is always fun, and i still hope, before my final step is done,i'll ban the devils, and the poets, too. he'll sit down in a puddle and unbend:that is how his condition is improved; for when the leeches prosper on his fat rear end,the spirits and his spirit are removed. why did you let that pretty woman gowho sang so nicely while you danced? she sang, and suddenly there prancedout of her mouth a little mouse, all red. that is a trifle and no cause for dread!who cares? at least it was not gray. why bother on this glorious lovers' day? mephisto, do you see

that pale, beautiful child,alone there on the heather? she moves slowly but steadily,she seems to walk with her feet chained together. i must confess that she, forbid,looks much as my good gretchen did. that does nobody good; leave it alone!it is a magic image, a lifeless apparition. encounters are fraught with perdition;its icy stare turns human blood to stone in truth, it almost petrifies;you know the story of medusa's eyes. those are the eyes of one that's dead i see,no loving hand closed them to rest. that is the breast that gretchen offered me,and that is the sweet body i possessed. that is just sorcery; you're easily deceived!all think she is their sweetheart and are grieved.

what rapture! oh, what agony!i cannot leave her, cannot flee. how strange, a narrow ruby band should deck,the sole adornment, her sweet neck. no wider than a knife's thin blade. i see it, too; it is quite so.her head under her arm she can parade, since perseus lopped it off, you know.illusion holds you captive still. come, let us climb that little hill,the prater's not so full of glee; and if theire not bewitching me,there is a theatre i see. what will it be? they'll resume instantly.well have the seventh play, a brand-new bit;

we do not think, so many are exacting.an amateur has written it, and amateurs do all the acting.forgive, good sirs, if now i leave you; it amateurs me to draw up the curtain. when it's on blocksberg i perceive you,i'm glad; for that's where you belong for certain. this time we can keep quite still,mieding's progeny; misty vale and hoary hill,that's our scenery. to make a golden wedding daytakes fifty years to the letter; but when their quarrels pass away,that gold i like much better. if you spirits can be seen,show yourselves tonight;

fairy king and fairy queennow will reunite. puck is coming, turns about,and drags his feet to dance; hundreds come behind and shoutand join with him and prance. ariel stirs up a song,a heavenly pure air; many gargoyles come alongand many who are fair. you would get along, dear couple?learn from us the art; if you want to keep love supple,you only have to part. he is sulky, sullen she,grab them, upon my soul; take her to the southern sea,and him up to the pole.

snout of fly, mosquito nose,with family additions, frog o'leaves and crick't o'grass,those are the musicians. now the bagpipe's joining in,a soap bubble it blows; hear the snicker-snacking dincome through his blunted nose. spider feet, belly of toad,and little wings, he'll grow 'em; there is no animal like that,but it's a little poem. mighty leaps and nimble feet,through honey scent up high; while you bounce enough, my sweet,still you cannot fly. is that not mummery right there?can that be what i see?

oberon who is so fairamid this company! no claws or tail or satyr's fleece!and yet you cannot cavil: just like the gods of ancient greece,he, too, must be a devil. what i do in the local clime,are sketches of this tourney; but i prepare, while it is time,for my italian journey. bad luck brought me to these regions:they could not be much louder; and in the bawdy witches' legionstwo only have used powder. white powder, just like dresses, servesold hags who are out of luck; i want to show my luscious curves.ride naked on my buck.

our manners, dear, are far too neatto argue and to scold; i only hope that young and sweet,just as you are, you mold. snout of fly, mosquito nose,leave off the naked sweet; frog o'leaves and crick't o'grassget back into the beat! the most exquisite company!each girl should be a bride; the bachelors, grooms; for one can seehow well they are allied. the earth should open up and gapeto swallow this young revel, or i will make a swift escapeto hell to see the devil. we appear as insects here,each with a little stinger,

that we may fittingly reveresatan, our sire and singer. look at their thronging legions play,naive, with little art; the next thing they will dare to sayis that they're good at heart. to dwell among the witches' folkseems quite a lot of fun; they are the ones i should invoke,not muses, as i've done. choose your friends well and you will zoom,join in and do not pass us! blocksberg has almost as much roomas cermany's parnassus. say, who is that haughty manwho walks as if he sits? he sniffs and snuffles as best he can:"he smells out jesuits."

i like to fish where it is clear,also in muddy brew; that's why the pious man is bereto mix with devils, too. the pious need no fancy prop,all vehicles seem sound: even up here on blocksberg's topconventicles abound. it seems, another choir succeeds,i hear the drums resuming. "that dull sound comes out of the reeds.it is the bitterns' booming." how each picks up his legs and toddles,and comes by hook or crook! the stooped one jumps, the plump one waddles;they don't know how they look! they hate each other, wretched rabble,and each would kill the choir;

they're harmonized by bagpipe babble,as beasts by orpheus' lyre. i am undaunted and resistboth skeptic and critique; the devil simply must exist,else what would he be? speak! imagination is in metoday far too despotic; if i am everything i see,then i must be idiotic. the spirits' element is vexing,i wish it weren't there; i never saw what's so perplexing,it drives me to despair. i am delighted by this whir,and glad that they persist; for from the devils i infer,good spirits, too, exist.

they follow little flames about,and think they're near the treasure; devil alliterates with doubtso i am here with pleasure. snout of fly, mosquito nose,damnable amateurs! frog o'leaves and crick't o'grassyou are musicians, sirs! sansouci, that is the nameof our whole caboodle; walking meets with ill acclaim,so we move on our noodle. we used to be good hangers-onand sponged good wine and meat; we danced till our shoes were gone,and now walk on bare feet. we come out of the swamps where wewere born without a penny;

but now we join the revelry,as elegant as any. i shot down from starry heightwith brilliant, fiery charm; but i lie in the grass tonight:who'll proffer me his arm? all around, give way! give way!trample down the grass! spirits come, and sometimes theyform a heavy mass. please don't walk like elephants,and do not be so rough; let no one be as plump as puck.for he is plump enough. if nature gave with lavish grace,or spirit, wings and will, follow in my airy traceup to the roses' hill!

floating clouds and wreaths of fogdawn has quickly banished; breeze in leaves, wind in the bog,and everything has vanished. in misery! despairing! long lost wretchedlyon the earth, and now imprisoned! as a felon locked up in a dungeon withhorrible torments, the fair ill-fated creature! it's come to that! to that! treacherous, despicable spirit-and that you have kept from me!- keep standing there, stand! roll your devilisheyes wrathfully in your face! stand and defy me with your intolerable presence! imprisoned!in irreparable misery! handed over to evil spirits and judging, unfeeling mankind!and meanwhile you soothe me with

insipid diversions; bide her growing grieffrom me, and let her perish helplessly!- she's not the first one. dog! abominable monster! - change him,oh infinite spirit! change back this worm into his dogshape, as he used to amuse himselfin the night when he trotted along before me; rolled in front of the feetof the harmless wanderer and, when he stumbled,clung to his shoulders. change him again to his favorite form that hemay crawl on his belly in the sand before me and i may trample on him with my feet, the caitiff!"- not the first one!" - grief! grief! past what a human soul can grasp, thatmore than one creature has sunk into

the depth of this misery, thatthe first one did not enough for the guilt of all the others,writhing in the agony of death before the eyes of the everforgiving one!the misery of this one woman surges. through my heart and marrow, and yougrin imperturbed over the fate of thousands! now we're once again at our wit's end where your human minds snap. why do you seek fellowshipwith us if you can't go through with it? you would fly, but get dizzy? did we impose on you, or you on us?

don't bare your greedy teeth at me like that!it sickens me! - great, magnificent spirit that deigned to appear to me, that knowmy heart and soul- why forge me to this monsterwho gorges himself on harm, and on corruption feasts. have you finished? save her! or woe unto you! the most hideouscurse upon you for millenniums! i cannot loosen the avenger's bonds,nor open his bolts."- save her!" who was it that plunged herinto ruin? i or you? are you reaching for thunder? well thatit was not given to you wretched mortals

those who answer innocently,is the tyrant's way of easing his embarrassment. take me there! she shall be freed! and the dangers you risk? know that blood-guiltfrom your hand still lies on the town. over the slain man's siteavenging spirits hover, waiting for the returning murderer. that, too, from you? a world'smurder and death upon you, monster? guide me to her, i say,and free her! i shall guide you; hear what i can do. do i haveall the power in the heaven and on the earth?

i shall make the jailer's senses foggy,and you may get the keys and lead her out with human hands. i shall stand guard,magic horses shall be prepared, and i shall carry you away.that i can do. up and away! what are they weavingaround the ravenstone? i do not know what they do and brew. floating to, floating fro,bowing and bending. a witches' guild. they strew and dedicate.

go by! go by! a long unwonted shudder grips,mankind's entire grief grips me. she's here, behind this wall that drips,and all her crime was a fond fantasy. you hesitate to go in?you dread to see her again? on!your wavering waves on death's decree. my mother, the whore,who has murdered me - my father, the rogue,who has eaten me - my little sister alonepicked up every bone, in a cool place she put them away;into a fair bird i now have grown;

fly away, fly away! she does not dream how her lover at the doorhears the clanking chains and the rustling straw. oh! oh! they come. death's bitterness! still! still! i come to set you free. if you are human, pity my distress. you'll awaken the guards. speak quietly. who, hangman, could giveyou over me this might? you come for me in the middle of the night.have pity on me, let me live! is it not timewhen the morning chimes have rung?

i am still so young, so very young.and must already die. i was beautiful, too, and that was why.near was the friend, now he is away. torn lies the wreath, the flowers decay.do not grip me so brutally. what shall i do? spare me. what have i done to you?let me not in vain implore. afterall, i have never seen you before. after such grief, can i live any more? now i am entirely in your might.only let me nurse the baby again. i fondled it all through the night;they took it from me to give me pain, and now they say i put it awayand i shall never again be gay..

they sing songs about me.the people are wicked. an ancient fairy tale ends that way,who made them pick it? one loving you lies at your feetto end your bondage. listen, sweet! all, let us kneel, send to the saints our prayers!see, underneath these stairs, underneath the sillthere seethes hell. the devilmakes a thundering noise with his angry revel. gretchen! gretchen! that was my lover's voice!

where is he? i heard him call. i am free.no one shall hinder me. to his neck i shall fly,on his bosom lie. he called gretchen. he stood on the sillamid the wailing and howling of hell, through the angry and devilish jeersthe sweet and loving tone touched my ears. it is i. it is you. oh, do say it again. it is he. it is he. where, then, is all my pain?where the fear of the dungeon? the chain? it is you. come to save me.i am saved! now i see the road again, too,where, for the first time, i laid eyes on you

and the garden and the gatewhere i and martha stand and wait. come on! come on! o stay!because i am so happy where you are staying. do not delay.if you keep on delaying, we shall have to pay dearly therefor. what? you cannot kiss any more?my friend, you were not gone longer than this and forgot how to kiss?why, at your neck, do i feel such dread, when once from your eyes and from what you saida whole heaven surged down to fill me, and you would kiss me as if you wanted to kill me?kiss me!

else i'll kiss you. oh, grief! your lips are cold, are mute.where is your loving air?who took it from me? come, follow me, dearest, and be bold!i shall caress you a thousandfold; only follow me! that is all i plead. and is it you? is it you indeed? it is i. come along! you take off the chain,and take me into your lap again.

how is it that you do not shrink from me?-do you know at all, my friend, whom you make free? come! come! soon dawns the light of day. i've put my mother away,i've drowned my child, don't you see? was it not given to you and to me?you, too - it is you! could it merely seem? give me your hand! it is no dream.your dear hand! - but alas, it is wet. wipe it off! there is yetblood on this one. oh god! what have you done!sheathe your sword; i am begging you. let the past be forever past - oh lord,you will kill me, too.

oh no, you must outlive us!i'll describe the graves you should give us. care for them and sorrowtomorrow: give the best place to my mother,and next to her lay my brother; me, a little aside,only don't make the space too wide! and the little one at my right breast.nobody else will lie by my side. oh, to lie with you and to hidein your arms, what happiness! now it is more than i can do;i feel, i must force myself on you, and you, it seems, push back my caress;and yet it is you, and look so pure, so devout. if you feel, it is i, come out!

out where? into the open. if the grave is there,if death awaits us, then come! from here to the bed of eternal rest, and not a step beyond - no!you are leaving now? oh, henrich, that i could go! you can! if only you would! open stands the door. i may not go; for me there is no hope any more.what good to flee? they lie in wait for me. to have to go begging is misery,and to have a bad conscience, too. it is misery to stray far and forsaken,and, anyhow, i would be taken.

i shall stay with you. quick! quick! i pray.save your poor child. on! follow the wayalong the brook, over the bridge,into the wood, to the left where the planks stickout of the pond. seize it - oh, quick!it wants to rise, it is still struggling.save! save! can you not see,it takes one step, and you are free. if only we were past the hill!my mother sits there on a stone,

my scalp is creeping with dread!my mother sits there on a stone and wags and wags her head; she becks not, she nods not,her head is heavy and sore, she has slept so long, she awakes no more.she slept that we might embrace. those were the days of grace. in vain is my pleading, in vain what i say;what can i do but bear you away? leave me! no, i shall suffer no force!do not grip me so murderously! after all,i did everything else you asked. the day dawns. dearest! dearest!

day. yes, day is coming. the last day breaks;it was to be my wedding day. tell no one that you havealready been with gretchen. my veil! oh pain! it just happened that way.we shall meet again, but not dance that day.the crowd is pushing, no word is spoken. the alleys belowand the streets overflow. the bell is tolling, the wand is broken.how they tie and grab me, now one delivers me to the block and gives the sign,and for every neck quivers the blade that quivers for mine.mute lies the world as a grave.

that i had never been born! up! or you are lost.prating and waiting and pointless wavering. my horses are quavering!over the sky creeps the dawn. what did the darkness spawn?he! he! send him away! what does he want in this holy place?he wants me! you shall live. judgment of god! i givemyself to you. come! come! i shall abandon you with her. thine i am, father. save me!you angels, hosts of heaven, stir,

encamp about me, be my guard.heinrich! i quail at thee. she is judged. is saved. hither to me! heinrich! heinrich! subtitles by knappen@kgenglish translation by walter kaufmann

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