And out of reverence for the goal and the heir, he will hang up no more withered wreaths in the sanctuary of life.
Verily, not the rope-makers will I resemble: they lengthen out their cord and thereby go ever backward.
Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his truths and triumphs; a toothless mouth hath no longer the right to every truth.
And whoever wanteth to have fame, must take leave of honour betimes, and practice the difficult art of—going at the right time.
One must discontinue being feasted upon when one tasteth best: that is known by those who want to be long loved.
Sour apples are there, no doubt, whose lot is to wait until the last day of autumn: and at once they become ripe, yellow, and shrivelled.
In some ageth the heart ages first, and in others the spirit. And some are hoary in youth, but the late young keep long young.
To many men life is a failure; a poison-worm gnaweth at their heart. Then let them see to it that their dying is all the more a success.
Many never become sweet; they rot even in the summer. It is cowardice that holdeth them fast to their branches.
Far too many live, and far too long do they hang on their branches. Would that a storm would come and shook all this rottenness and worm-eatenness from the tree!
Would that here came preachers of speedy death! Those would be the appropriate storms and agitators of the trees of life! But I hear only the slow death preached, and patience with all that is "earthly."
Ah! you preach patience with what is earthly? This earthly is it that hath too much patience with you, ye blasphemers!
