THE NIGHT SONG

‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.

It is night: now all the gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul is also a gushing fountain.

‘Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.

It is night. Only now do all the songs of those who love awaken. My soul, too, is the song of one who loves.

Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within me; it longeth to find expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaketh itself the language of love.

Something unsatisfied and impossible to satisfy is inside me. It longs to express itself. A craving for love is inside me, and it speaks in the language of love.

Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be begirt with light!

I am light. Ah, I wish I were night! But I am lonely because I am surrounded by light!

Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I suck at the breasts of light!

Ah, if only I were dark as night! How I would suck at the breasts of light!

And you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms aloft!—and would rejoice in the gifts of your light.

And I would bless you too, little twinkling stars and glowworms up above! I would rejoice in the gifts of your light.

But I live in mine own light, I drink again into myself the flames that break forth from me.

But I live in my own light. I drink back the flames that burst from me.

I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than receiving.

I do not know the happiness of receiving, and I have often dreamed that stealing must be more blessed than receiving.

It is my poverty that my hand never ceaseth bestowing; it is mine envy that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing.

My poverty is that my hand never stops giving. My envy is that I see waiting eyes and nights brightened by longing.

Oh, the misery of all bestowers! Oh, the darkening of my sun! Oh, the craving to crave! Oh, the violent hunger in satiety!

Oh, the misery of all who give! Oh, how my sun grows dark! Oh, the longing to long! Oh, the fierce hunger even when full!

They take from me: but do I yet touch their soul? There is a gap ‘twixt giving and receiving; and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged over.

They take from me, but do I really touch their souls? There is a gap between giving and receiving, and even the smallest gap must eventually be bridged.

A hunger ariseth 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.

A hunger rises from my beauty. I want to hurt those I illuminate. I want to rob those I have given gifts to. This is how I hunger for wickedness.

Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretcheth out to it; hesitating like the cascade, which hesitateth even in its leap:—thus do I hunger for wickedness!

I pull my hand away when another hand is already reaching for it. I hesitate like a waterfall that hesitates even as it falls. This is how I hunger for wickedness!

Such revenge doth mine abundance think of: such mischief welleth out of my lonesomeness.

My abundance thinks of such revenge. Such mischief wells up from my loneliness.

My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing; my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance!

My joy in giving died as I gave. My virtue grew tired of itself because it was so abundant!

He who ever bestoweth is in danger of losing his shame; to him who ever dispenseth, the hand and heart become callous by very dispensing.

Anyone who always gives is in danger of losing their sense of shame. The very act of giving constantly makes the giver's hand and heart callous.

Mine eye no longer overfloweth for the shame of suppliants; my hand hath become too hard for the trembling of filled hands.

My eyes no longer fill with tears at the shame of those who beg. My hand has grown too hard to tremble when it is full.

Whence have gone the tears of mine eye, and the down of my heart? Oh, the lonesomeness of all bestowers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones!

Where have the tears in my eyes and the softness of my heart gone? Oh, the loneliness of all who give! Oh, the silence of all who shine!

Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is dark do they speak with their light—but to me they are silent.

Many suns circle in empty space. They speak with their light to all that is dark, but to me they are silent.

Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one: unpityingly doth it pursue its course.

Oh, this is how light is hostile to the one who shines: it follows its course without pity.

Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart, cold to the suns:—thus travelleth every sun.

Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart, cold to the suns: this is how every sun travels.

Like a storm do the suns pursue their courses: that is their travelling. Their inexorable will do they follow: that is their coldness.

The suns travel like a storm as they follow their courses. They follow their relentless will. That is their coldness.

Oh, ye only is it, ye dark, nightly ones, that extract warmth from the shining ones! Oh, ye only drink milk and refreshment from the light’s udders!

Oh, only you, dark creatures of the night, draw warmth from those who shine! Oh, only you drink milk and refreshment from the udders of light!

Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth with the iciness! Ah, there is thirst in me; it panteth after your thirst!

Ah, there is ice all around me. My hand burns with cold! Ah, I am thirsty. My thirst longs for your thirst!

‘Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly! And lonesomeness!

It is night. Alas, I have to be light! And I long for the night! And loneliness!

‘Tis night: now doth my longing break forth in me as a fountain,—for speech do I long.

It is night. Now my longing bursts forth like a fountain, for I long to speak.

‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.

It is night: now all the gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul is also a gushing fountain.

‘Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.—

It is night. Now all the songs of lovers awaken. My soul, too, is the song of a lover.

Thus sang Zarathustra.

This is how Zarathustra sang.