Those who come must move as quickly
As the wind—we'll have no sickly,
Crippled, withered, in our crew;
Off with hypocrites and preachers,
Proper folk and prosy teachers,
Sweep them from our heaven blue.
Sweep away all sad grimaces,
Whirl the dust into the faces
Of the dismal sick and cold!
Hunt them from our breezy places,
Not for them the wind that braces,
But for men of visage bold.
Off with those who spoil earth's gladness,
Blow away all clouds of sadness,
Till our heaven clear we see;
Let me hold thy hand, best fellow,
Till my joy like tempest bellow!
Freest thou of spirits free!
When thou partest, take a token
Of the joy thou hast awoken,
Take our wreath and fling it far;
Toss it up and catch it never,
Whirl it on before thee ever,
Till it reach the farthest star.
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Footnote 15:
This poem is a parody of the "Chorus Mysticus" which concludes the
second part of Goethe's "Faust." Bayard Taylor's translation of the
passage in "Faust" runs as follows:—
"All things transitory
But as symbols are sent,
Earth's insufficiency
Here grows to Event:
The Indescribable
Here it is done:
The Woman-Soul leadeth us
Upward and on!"
Footnote 16:
Translated by Miss M. D. Petre. Inserted by permission of the editor
of the _Nation_, in which it appeared on April 17, 1909.
Footnote 17:
Translated by Miss M. D. Petre. Inserted by permission of the editor
of the _Nation_, in which it appeared on May 15, 1909.
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FOOTNOTES:
Transcriber's Note
The original spelling and punctuation has been retained.
Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
Italicized words and phrases in the text version are presented by
surrounding the text with underscores.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Joyful Wisdom, by Friedrich Nietzsche