ON the bridge I stood, Mellow was the night, Music came from far-- Drops of gold outpoured On the shimmering waves. Song, gondolas, light, Floated a-twinkling out into the dusk. The chords of my soul, moved By unseen impulse, throbbed Secretly into a gondola song, With thrills of bright-hued ecstasy. Had I a listener there? [Footnote 1: Translated by Herman Scheffauer.] [Footnote 2: Translated by Herman Scheffauer.] [Footnote 3: This poem was written on the betrothal of one of Nietzsche's Bâle friends.--TR.] [Footnote 4: Translated by Herman Scheffauer.] [Footnote 5: Campo Santo di Staglieno is the cemetery of Staglieno, near Genoa. The poem was inspired by the sight of a girl with a lamb on the tombstone, with the words underneath-- "Pia, caritatevole, amorosissima."] [Footnote 6: Published by Nietzsche himself. The poem was inspired by a ship that was christened _Angiolina,_ in memory of a love-sick girl who leapt into the sea.--TR.] [Footnote 7: See above, p. 157. Both poems were inspired by the same tombstone.--TR.] [Footnote 8: The Genoese is Nietzsche himself, who lived a great part of his life at Genoa.--TR.] [Footnote 9: Translated by Herman Scheffauer.] EPIGRAMS CAUTION: POISON![1] He who cannot laugh at this had better not start reading; For if he read and do not laugh, physic he'll be needing! HOW TO FIND ONE'S COMPANY With jesters it is good to jest: Who likes to tickle, is tickled best. THE WORD I dearly love the living word, That flies to you like a merry bird, Ready with pleasant nod to greet, E'en in misfortune welcome, sweet, Yet it has blood, can pant you deep: Then to the dove's ear it will creep: And curl itself, or start for flight-- Whate'er it does, it brings delight. Yet tender doth the word remain, Soon it is ill, soon well again: So if its little life you'd spare, O grasp it lightly and with care, Nor heavy hand upon it lay, For e'en a cruel glance would slay! There it would lie, unsouled, poor thing! All stark, all formless, and all cold, Its little body changed and battered, By death and dying rudely shattered. A dead word is a hateful thing, A barren, rattling, ting-ting-ting. A curse on ugly trades I cry That doom all little words to die! THE WANDERER AND HIS SHADOW _A Book_ You'll ne'er go on nor yet go back? Is e'en for chamois here no track? So here I wait and firmly clasp What eye and hand will let me grasp! Five-foot-broad ledge, red morning's breath, And under me--world, man, and death! JOYFUL WISDOM This is no book--for such, who looks? Coffins and shrouds, naught else, are books! What's dead and gone they make their prey, Yet in my book lives fresh To-day.