The Song of Melancholy

In evening’s limpid air, What time the dew’s soothings Unto the earth downpour, Invisibly and unheard— For tender shoe-gear wear The soothing dews, like all that’s kind-gentle—: Bethinkst thou then, bethinkst thou, burning heart, How once thou thirstedest For heaven’s kindly teardrops and dew’s down-droppings, All singed and weary thirstedest, What time on yellow grass-pathways Wicked, occidental sunny glances Through sombre trees about thee sported, Blindingly sunny glow-glances, gladly-hurting? “Of TRUTH the wooer? Thou?”—so taunted they— “Nay! Merely poet! A brute insidious, plundering, grovelling, That aye must lie, That wittingly, wilfully, aye must lie: For booty lusting, Motley masked, Self-hidden, shrouded, Himself his booty— HE—of truth the wooer? Nay! Mere fool! Mere poet! Just motley speaking, From mask of fool confusedly shouting, Circumambling on fabricated word-bridges, On motley rainbow-arches, ‘Twixt the spurious heavenly, And spurious earthly, Round us roving, round us soaring,— MERE FOOL! MERE POET! HE—of truth the wooer? Not still, stiff, smooth and cold, Become an image, A godlike statue, Set up in front of temples, As a God’s own door-guard: Nay! hostile to all such truthfulness-statues, In every desert homelier than at temples, With cattish wantonness, Through every window leaping Quickly into chances, Every wild forest a-sniffing, Greedily-longingly, sniffing, That thou, in wild forests, ’Mong the motley-speckled fierce creatures, Shouldest rove, sinful-sound and fine-coloured, With longing lips smacking, Blessedly mocking, blessedly hellish, blessedly bloodthirsty, Robbing, skulking, lying—roving:— Or unto eagles like which fixedly, Long adown the precipice look, Adown THEIR precipice:— Oh, how they whirl down now, Thereunder, therein, To ever deeper profoundness whirling!— Then, Sudden, With aim aright, With quivering flight, On LAMBKINS pouncing, Headlong down, sore-hungry, For lambkins longing, Fierce ’gainst all lamb-spirits, Furious-fierce ’gainst all that look Sheeplike, or lambeyed, or crisp-woolly, —Grey, with lambsheep kindliness! Even thus, Eaglelike, pantherlike, Are the poet’s desires, Are THINE OWN desires ‘neath a thousand guises, Thou fool! Thou poet! Thou who all mankind viewedst— So God, as sheep—: The God TO REND within mankind, As the sheep in mankind, And in rending LAUGHING— THAT, THAT is thine own blessedness! Of a panther and eagle—blessedness! Of a poet and fool—the blessedness!— In evening’s limpid air, What time the moon’s sickle, Green, ‘twixt the purple-glowings, And jealous, steal’th forth: —Of day the foe, With every step in secret, The rosy garland-hammocks Downsickling, till they’ve sunken Down nightwards, faded, downsunken:— Thus had I sunken one day From mine own truth-insanity, From mine own fervid day-longings, Of day aweary, sick of sunshine, —Sunk downwards, evenwards, shadowwards: By one sole trueness All scorched and thirsty: —Bethinkst thou still, bethinkst thou, burning heart, How then thou thirstedest?— THAT I SHOULD BANNED BE FROM ALL THE TRUENESS! MERE FOOL! MERE POET!

In the clear evening air, When the soothing dew Falls on the earth, Unseen and unheard, For soothing dew wears soft shoes, like all that is gentle and kind: Do you remember, do you remember, burning heart, How you once thirsted For heaven’s kind teardrops and falling dew, How you thirsted, scorched and weary, When across the paths of yellow grass Wicked rays of the western sun Played around you through the dark trees, Blindingly bright rays, hurting you with delight? “A lover of TRUTH? You?” they mocked. “No! Only a poet! A sly, plundering, crawling beast, That must always lie, That knowingly, willingly, must always lie: Hungry for prey, Wearing a many-colored mask, Hiding himself, shrouding himself, His own prey. HE, a lover of truth? No! Just a fool! Just a poet! Speaking only in many colors, Shouting wildly from behind a fool’s mask, Wandering over bridges of made-up words, Over many-colored rainbow arches, Between a false heaven And a false earth, Roaming around us, soaring around us, JUST A FOOL! JUST A POET! HE, a lover of truth? Not still, stiff, smooth, and cold, Turned into an image, A godlike statue, Set up in front of temples, To guard a god’s door. No! An enemy of all such statues of truth, More at home in any desert than at temples, With a cat’s playful abandon, Leaping through every window Quickly at every chance, Sniffing through every wild forest, Sniffing greedily, longingly, So that you may roam in wild forests, Among the fierce, spotted, many-colored creatures, Sinfully healthy and brightly colored, Smacking your lips with longing, Blessedly mocking, blessedly hellish, blessedly bloodthirsty, Robbing, skulking, lying as you roam. Or like eagles that stare Far down into the abyss, Into THEIR abyss. Oh, how they spiral down now, Down beneath, down into it, Spiraling ever deeper! Then, Suddenly, Taking careful aim, With wings trembling, Swooping on LAMBS, Plunging down, fiercely hungry, Longing for lambs, Fiercely hostile to all lamb-like spirits, Furious at everything that looks Like a sheep, or has lamb’s eyes or curly wool, Everything gray with the kindness of a lamb or sheep! Just so, Like an eagle’s, like a panther’s, Are the poet’s desires, Are YOUR OWN desires beneath a thousand disguises, You fool! You poet! You who saw all humanity As both God and sheep: To tear apart the God within humanity, And the sheep within humanity, And to LAUGH while tearing them apart. THAT, THAT is your own bliss! The bliss of a panther and an eagle! The bliss of a poet and a fool! In the clear evening air, When the crescent moon, Green among the purple glows, Jealously steals out, The enemy of day, Quietly, with every step, Cutting down the rosy garlands like a sickle, Until they have sunk Into the night, faded and fallen. So one day I sank From my own madness for truth, From my own burning longing for day, Tired of day, sick of sunshine, Sank down toward evening, toward shadows. Scorched and thirsty From one single truth. Do you still remember, do you remember, burning heart, How you thirsted then? TO BE BANISHED FROM ALL TRUTH! JUST A FOOL! JUST A POET!