Thy graciousness and over-graciousness, is it which will not complain and weep: and yet, O my soul, longeth thy smiling for tears, and thy trembling mouth for sobs. “Is not all weeping complaining? And all complaining, accusing?” Thus speakest thou to thyself; and therefore, O my soul, wilt thou rather smile than pour forth thy grief— —Than in gushing tears pour forth all thy grief concerning thy fulness, and concerning the craving of the vine for the vintager and vintage-knife! But wilt thou not weep, wilt thou not weep forth thy purple melancholy, then wilt thou have to SING, O my soul!—Behold, I smile myself, who foretell thee this: —Thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until all seas turn calm to hearken unto thy longing,— —Until over calm longing seas the bark glideth, the golden marvel, around the gold of which all good, bad, and marvellous things frisk:— —Also many large and small animals, and everything that hath light marvellous feet, so that it can run on violet-blue paths,— —Towards the golden marvel, the spontaneous bark, and its master: he, however, is the vintager who waiteth with the diamond vintage-knife,— —Thy great deliverer, O my soul, the nameless one—for whom future songs only will find names! And verily, already hath thy breath the fragrance of future songs,— —Already glowest thou and dreamest, already drinkest thou thirstily at all deep echoing wells of consolation, already reposeth thy melancholy in the bliss of future songs!— O my soul, now have I given thee all, and even my last possession, and all my hands have become empty by thee:—THAT I BADE THEE SING, behold, that was my last thing to give! That I bade thee sing,—say now, say: WHICH of us now—oweth thanks?— Better still, however: sing unto me, sing, O my soul! And let me thank thee!— Thus spake Zarathustra. LIX. THE SECOND DANCE-SONG. 1. “Into thine eyes gazed I lately, O Life: gold saw I gleam in thy night-eyes,—my heart stood still with delight: —A golden bark saw I gleam on darkened waters, a sinking, drinking, reblinking, golden swing-bark! At my dance-frantic foot, dost thou cast a glance, a laughing, questioning, melting, thrown glance: Twice only movedst thou thy rattle with thy little hands—then did my feet swing with dance-fury.— My heels reared aloft, my toes they hearkened,—thee they would know: hath not the dancer his ear—in his toe! Unto thee did I spring: then fledst thou back from my bound; and towards me waved thy fleeing, flying tresses round! Away from thee did I spring, and from thy snaky tresses: then stoodst thou there half-turned, and in thine eye caresses. With crooked glances—dost thou teach me crooked courses; on crooked courses learn my feet—crafty fancies! I fear thee near, I love thee far; thy flight allureth me, thy seeking secureth me:—I suffer, but for thee, what would I not gladly bear! For thee, whose coldness inflameth, whose hatred misleadeth, whose flight enchaineth, whose mockery—pleadeth: