And if you would be akin to the mortals
The young girls will blossom for you.
And the young heroes will shine;
And, sweeter than ever,
Morning will play upon the cheeks of the happy ones;
And, ravishing-sweet, you will hear
The songs of those who are without care. . . .
"Ah, once the living waves of song
Surged out of every bush to me;
And still the heavenly ones glanced down upon me,
Their eyes shining with joy."
The separation from the blessedness of childhood, from youth even, has taken the golden glamour from nature, and the future is hopeless emptiness. But what robs nature of its glamour, and life of its joy, is the poison of the retrospective longing, which harks back, in order to sink into its own depths:
Empedocles.
"Thou seekest life—and a godly fire springs to thee,
Gushing and gleaming, from the deeps of the earth;
And, with shuddering longing,
Throws thee down into the flames of Aetna.
"So, through a queen's wanton whim,
Pearls are dissolved in wine—restrain her not!
Didst thou not throw thy riches, Poet,
Into the bright and bubbling cup!
"Still thou art holy to me, as the Power of Earth
Which took thee away, lovely assassin!. . .
And I would have followed the hero to the depths,
Had Love not held me."
