" When I lay sleeping, a sheep ate at the ivy- wreath of my head, ate and said eating: 'Zara- thustra is no longer a scholar.'
Said it and went off clumsily and proudly. So a child told me.
I like to lie here where the children play, at the broken wall, under thistles and red poppy flowers.
A scholar am I still for the children and the thistles and the red poppy flowers. Innocent are they, even in their wickedness.
But a scholar am I no longer for the sheep. Thus my fate willeth be it blessed !
For this is the truth : I have departed from the house of scholars, and the door I have shut violently behind me.
Too long sat my soul hungry at their table. Not, as they, am I trained for perceiving as for cracking nuts.
Freedom I love, and a breeze over a fresh soil. And I would rather sleep on ox-skins than on their honours and respectabilities.
I am too hot and am burnt with mine own thoughts,