of delight were its refreshment; on the staff did life creep along with the blind one.
What has happened to me? How have I freed myself from loathing? Who has rejuvenated my eye? How have I flown to the height where no rabble any longer sit at the wells?
Did my loathing itself create for me wings and fountain-divining powers? to the loftiest height had I to fly, to find again the well of delight!
Oh, I have found it, my brothers! Here on the loftiest height bubbles up for me the well of delight! And there is a life at whose waters none of the rabble drink with me!
Almost too violently do you flow for me, you fountain of delight! And often emptiest you the goblet again, in wanting to fill it!
And yet must I learn to approach you more modestly: far too violently does my heart still flow towards you:-
My heart on which my summer burns, my short, hot, melancholy, over-happy summer: how my summer heart longs for your coolness!
Past, the lingering distress of my spring! Past, the wickedness of my snowflakes in June! Summer have I become entirely, and summer-noontide!
A summer on the loftiest height, with cold fountains and blissful stillness: oh, come, my friends, that the stillness may become more blissful!
For this is our height and our home: too high and steep do we here dwell for all uncleanly ones and their thirst.
Cast but your pure eyes into the well of my delight, my friends! How could it become turbid thereby! It shall laugh back to you with its purity.
