50. The Mount of Olives
WINTER, a bad guest, sits with me at home; blue are my hands with his friendly hand-shaking.
I honor him, that bad guest, but gladly leave him alone. Gladly do I run away from him; and when one runs well, then one escapes him!
With warm feet and warm thoughts do I run where the wind is calm- to the sunny corner of my olive-mount.
There do I laugh at my stern guest, and am still fond of him; because he clears my house of flies, and quiets many little noises.
For he suffers it not if a gnat wants to buzz, or even two of them; also the lanes makes he lonesome, so that the moonlight is afraid there at night.
A hard guest is he,- but I honor him, and do not worship, like the tenderlings, the pot-bellied fire-idol.
Better even a little teeth-chattering than idol-adoration!- so wills my nature. And especially have I a grudge against all ardent, steaming, steamy fire-idols.
Him whom I love, I love better in winter than in summer; better do I now mock at my enemies, and more heartily, when winter sits in my house.
Heartily, verily, even when I creep into bed-: there, still laughs and wantons my hidden happiness; even my deceptive dream laughs.
I, a- creeper? Never in my life did I creep before the powerful; and if ever I lied, then did I lie out of love. Therefore am I glad even in my winter-bed.
