longs to find expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaks itself the language of love.
Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be begirt with light!
Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I suck at the breasts of light!
And you yourselves would I bless, you twinkling starlets and glow-worms aloft!- and would rejoice in the gifts of your light.
But I live in my own light, I drink again into myself the flames that break forth from me.
I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than receiving.
It is my poverty that my hand never ceases giving; it is my envy that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing.
Oh, the misery of all givers! Oh, the darkening of my sun! Oh, the craving to crave! Oh, the violent hunger in satiety!
They take from me: but do I yet touch their soul? There is a gap 'twixt giving and receiving; and the small gap has finally to be bridged over.
A hunger arises out of my beauty: I should like to injure those I illumine; I should like to rob those I have gifted:- thus do I hunger for wickedness.
Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretches out to it; hesitating like the cascade, which hesitates even in its leap:- thus do I hunger for wickedness!
Such revenge does my abundance think of such mischief wells out of my lonesomeness.
My happiness in giving died in giving; my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance!
He who ever gives is in danger of losing his shame; to
