His deed itself is still the shadow upon him: his doing obscures the doer. Not yet has he overcome his deed.
To be sure, I love in him the shoulders of the ox: but now do I want to see also the eye of the angel.
Also his hero-will has he still to unlearn: an exalted one shall he be, and not only a sublime one:- the ether itself should raise him, the will-less one!
He has subdued monsters, he has solved enigmas. But he should also redeem his monsters and enigmas; into heavenly children should he transform them.
As yet has his knowledge not learned to smile, and to be without jealousy; as yet has his gushing passion not become calm in beauty.
Not in satiety shall his longing cease and disappear, but in beauty! Gracefulness belongs to the munificence of the magnanimous.
His arm across his head: thus should the hero repose; thus should he also overcome his repose.
But precisely to the hero is beauty the hardest thing of all. Unattainable is beauty by all ardent wills.
A little more, a little less: precisely this is much here, it is the most here.
To stand with relaxed muscles and with unharnessed will: that is the hardest for all of you, you sublime ones!
When power becomes gracious and descends into the visible- I call such condescension, beauty.
And from no one do I want beauty so much as from you, you powerful one: let your goodness be your last self-conquest.
All evil do I accredit to you: therefore do I desire of you the good.
I have often laughed at the weaklings, who think themselves good because they have crippled paws!
