Songs of Prince Free-as-a-Bird
Original German
Anhang:
Lieder des Prinzen Vogelfrei.
1 An Goethe.
Das UnvergänglicheIst nur dein Gleichniss!Gott der VerfänglicheIst Dichter-Erschleichniss...
Welt-Rad, das rollende,Streift Ziel auf Ziel:Noth — nennt’s der Grollende,Der Narr nennt’s — Spiel...
Welt-Spiel, das herrische,Mischt Sein und Schein: —Das Ewig-NärrischeMischt uns — hinein!...
2 Dichters Berufung.
Als ich jüngst, mich zu erquicken,Unter dunklen Bäumen sass,Hört’ ich ticken, leise ticken,Zierlich, wie nach Takt und Maass.Böse wurd’ ich, zog Gesichter, —Endlich aber gab ich nach,Bis ich gar, gleich einem Dichter,Selber mit im Tiktak sprach.
Wie mir so im Verse-MachenSilb’ um Silb’ ihr Hopsa sprang,Musst’ ich plötzlich lachen, lachenEine Viertelstunde lang.Du ein Dichter? Du ein Dichter?Steht’s mit deinem Kopf so schlecht?— „Ja, mein Herr, Sie sind ein Dichter“Achselzuckt der Vogel Specht.
Wessen harr’ ich hier im Busche?Wem doch laur’ ich Räuber auf?Ist’s ein Spruch? Ein Bild? Im HuscheSitzt mein Reim ihm hintendrauf.Was nur schlüpft und hüpft, gleich sticht derDichter sich’s zum Vers zurecht.— „Ja, mein Herr, Sie sind ein Dichter“Achselzuckt der Vogel Specht.
Reime, mein’ ich, sind wie Pfeile?Wie das zappelt, zittert, springt,Wenn der Pfeil in edle TheileDes Lacerten-Leibchens dringt!Ach, ihr sterbt dran, arme Wichter,Oder taumelt wie bezecht!— „Ja, mein Herr, Sie sind ein Dichter“Achselzuckt der Vogel Specht.
Schiefe Sprüchlein voller Eile,Trunkne Wörtlein, wie sich’s drängt!Bis ihr Alle, Zeil’ an Zeile,An der Tiktak-Kette hängt.Und es giebt grausam Gelichter,Das dies — freut? Sind Dichter — schlecht?
— „Ja, mein Herr, Sie sind ein Dichter“Achselzuckt der Vogel Specht.
Höhnst du, Vogel? Willst du scherzen?Steht’s mit meinem Kopf schon schlimm,Schlimmer stünd’s mit meinem Herzen?Fürchte, fürchte meinen Grimm! —Doch der Dichter — Reime flicht erSelbst im Grimm noch schlecht und recht.— „Ja, mein Herr, Sie sind ein Dichter“Achselzuckt der Vogel Specht.
3 Im Süden.
So häng’ ich denn auf krummem AsteUnd schaukle meine Müdigkeit.Ein Vogel lud mich her zu Gaste,Ein Vogelnest ist’s, drin ich raste.Wo bin ich doch? Ach, weit! Ach, weit!
Das weisse Meer liegt eingeschlafen,Und purpurn steht ein Segel drauf.Fels, Feigenbäume, Thurm und Hafen,Idylle rings, Geblök von Schafen, —Unschuld des Südens, nimm mich auf!
Nur Schritt für Schritt — das ist kein Leben,Stets Bein vor Bein macht deutsch und schwer.Ich hiess den Wind mich aufwärts heben,Ich lernte mit den Vögeln Schweben, —Nach Süden flog ich über’s Meer.
Vernunft! Verdriessliches Geschäfte!Das bringt uns allzubald an’s Ziel!
Im Fliegen lernt’ ich, was mich äffte, —Schon fühl’ ich Muth und Blut und SäfteZu neuem Leben, neuem Spiel...
Einsam zu denken nenn’ ich weise,Doch einsam singen — wäre dumm!So hört ein Lied zu eurem PreiseUnd setzt euch still um mich im Kreise,Ihr schlimmen Vögelchen, herum!
So jung, so falsch, so umgetriebenScheint ganz ihr mir gemacht zum LiebenUnd jedem schönen Zeitvertreib?Im Norden — ich gesteh’s mit Zaudern —Liebt’ ich ein Weibchen, alt zum Schaudern:„Die Wahrheit“ hiess dies alte Weib...
4 Die fromme Beppa.
So lang noch hübsch mein Leibchen,Lohnt’s sich schon, fromm zu sein.Man weiss, Gott liebt die Weibchen,Die hübschen obendrein.Er wird’s dem armen MönchleinGewisslich gern verzeih’n,Dass er, gleich manchem Mönchlein,So gern will bei mir sein.
Kein grauer Kirchenvater!Nein, jung noch und oft roth,Oft trotz dem grausten KaterVoll Eifersucht und Noth.
Ich liebe nicht die Greise,Er liebt die Alten nicht:Wie wunderlich und weiseHat Gott dies eingericht!
Die Kirche weiss zu leben,Sie prüft Herz und Gesicht.Stets will sie mir vergeben, —Ja, wer vergiebt mir nicht!Man lispelt mit dem Mündchen,Man knixt und geht hinaus,Und mit dem neuen SündchenLöscht man das alte aus.
Gelobt sei Gott auf Erden,Der hübsche Mädchen liebtUnd derlei HerzbeschwerdenSich selber gern vergiebt.So lang noch hübsch mein Leibchen,Lohnt sich’s schon, fromm zu sein:Als altes WackelweibchenMag mich der Teufel frein!
5 Der geheimnissvolle Nachen.
Getsern Nachts, als Alles schlief,Kaum der Wind mit ungewissenSeufzern durch die Gassen lief,Gab mir Ruhe nicht das Kissen,Noch der Mohn, noch, was sonst tiefSchlafen macht, — ein gut Gewissen.
Endlich schlug ich mir den SchlafAus dem Sinn und lief zum Strande,Mondhell war’s und mild, — ich trafMann und Kahn auf warmem Sande,Schläfrig beide, Hirt und Schaf: —Schläfrig stiess der Kahn vom Lande.
Eine Stunde, leicht auch zwei,Oder war’s ein Jahr? — da sankenPlötzlich mir Sinn und GedankenIn ein ew’ges Einerlei,Und ein Abgrund ohne SchrankenThat sich auf: — da war’s vorbei!
— Morgen kam: auf schwarzen TiefenSteht ein Kahn und ruht und ruht...Was geschah? so rief’s, so riefenHundert bald: was gab es? Blut? — —Nichts geschah! Wir schliefen, schliefenAlle — ach, so gut! so gut!
6 Liebeserklärung(bei der aber der Dichter in eine Grube fiel —).
Oh Wunder! Fliegt er noch?Er steigt empor, und seine Flügel ruhn?Was hebt und trägt ihn doch?Was ist ihm Ziel und Zug und Zügel nun?
Gleich Stern und EwigkeitLebt er in Höhn jetzt, die das Leben flicht,Mitleidig selbst dem Neid —:Und hoch flog, wer ihn auch nur schweben sieht!
Oh Vogel Albatross!Zur Höhe treibt’s mit ew’gem Triebe mich.Ich dachte dein: da flossMir Thrän’ um Thräne, — ja, ich liebe dich!
7 Liedeines theokritischen Ziegenhirten.
Da lieg’ ich, krank im Gedärm, —Mich fressen die Wanzen.Und drüben noch Licht und Lärm!Ich hör’s, sie tanzen...
Sie wollte um diese Stund’Zu mir sich schleichen.Ich warte wie ein Hund, —Es kommt kein Zeichen.
Das Kreuz, als sie’s versprach?Wie konnte sie lügen?— Oder läuft sie Jedem nach,Wie meine Ziegen?
Woher ihr seid’ner Rock? —Ah, meine Stolze?Es wohnt noch mancher BockAn diesem Holze?
— Wie kraus und giftig machtVerliebtes Warten!So wächst bei schwüler NachtGiftpilz im Garten.
Die Liebe zehrt an mirGleich sieben Uebeln, —Nichts mag ich essen schier.Lebt wohl, ihr Zwiebeln!
Der Mond gieng schon in’s Meer,Müd sind alle Sterne,Grau kommt der Tag daher, —Ich stürbe gerne.
8 „Diesen ungewissen Seelen“.
Diesen ungewissen SeelenBin ich grimmig gram.All ihr Ehren ist ein Quälen,All ihr Lob ist Selbstverdruss und Scham.
Dass ich nicht an ihrem StrickeZiehe durch die Zeit,Dafür grüsst mich ihrer BlickeGiftig-süsser hoffnungsloser Neid.
Möchten sie mir herzhaft fluchenUnd die Nase drehn!Dieser Augen hülflos SuchenSoll bei mir auf ewig irre gehn.
9 Narr in Verzweiflung.
Ach! Was ich schrieb auf Tisch und WandMit Narrenherz und Narrenhand,Das sollte Tisch und Wand mir zieren?...
Doch ihr sagt: „Narrenhände schmieren, —Und Tisch und Wand soll man purgieren,Bis auch die letzte Spur verschwand!“
Erlaubt! Ich lege Hand mit an —,Ich lernte Schwamm und Besen führen,Als Kritiker, als Wassermann.
Doch, wenn die Arbeit abgethan,Säh’ gern ich euch, ihr Ueberweisen,Mit Weisheit Tisch und Wand besch......
10 Rimus remedium.Oder: Wie kranke Dichter sich trösten.
Aus deinem Munde,Du speichelflüssige Hexe Zeit,Tropft langsam Stund’ auf Stunde.Umsonst, dass all mein Ekel schreit:„Fluch, Fluch dem SchlundeDer Ewigkeit!“
Welt — ist von Erz:Ein glühender Stier, — der hört kein Schrein.Mit fliegenden Dolchen schreibt der SchmerzMir in’s Gebein:„Welt hat kein Herz,Und Dummheit wär’s, ihr gram drum sein!“
Giess alle Mohne,Giess, Fieber! Gift mir in’s Gehirn!Zu lang schon prüfst du mir Hand und Stirn.Was fragst du? Was? „Zu welchem — Lohne?“— Ha! Fluch der Dirn’Und ihrem Hohne!
Nein! Komm zurück!Draussen ist’s kalt, ich höre regnen —Ich sollte dir zärtlicher begegnen?— Nimm! Hier ist Gold: wie glänzt das Stück! —Dich heissen „Glück“?Dich, Fieber, segnen? —
Die Thür springt auf!Der Regen sprüht nach meinem Bette!Wind löscht das Licht, — Unheil in Hauf’!— Wer jetzt nicht hundert Reime hätte,Ich wette, wette,Der gienge drauf!
11 „Mein Glück!“
Die Tauben von San Marco seh ich wieder:Still ist der Platz, Vormittag ruht darauf.In sanfter Kühle schick’ ich müssig LiederGleich Taubenschwärmen in das Blau hinauf —Und locke sie zurück,Noch einen Reim zu hängen in’s Gefieder— mein Glück! Mein Glück!
Du stilles Himmels-Dach, blau-licht, von Seide,Wie schwebst du schirmend ob des bunten Bau’s,Den ich — was sag ich? — liebe, fürchte, neide...Die Seele wahrlich tränk’ ich gern ihm aus!Gäb’ ich sie je zurück? —Nein, still davon, du Augen-Wunderweide!— mein Glück! Mein Glück!
Du strenger Thurm, mit welchem LöwendrangeStiegst du empor hier, siegreich, sonder Müh!Du überklingst den Platz mit tiefem Klange —:Französisch, wärst du sein accent aigu?Blieb ich gleich dir zurück,Ich wüsste, aus welch seidenweichem Zwange...— mein Glück! Mein Glück!
Fort, fort, Musik! Lass erst die Schatten dunkelnUnd wachsen bis zur braunen lauen Nacht!Zum Tone ist’s zu früh am Tag, noch funkelnDie Gold-Zieraten nicht in Rosen-Pracht,Noch blieb viel Tag zurück,Viel Tag für Dichten, Schleichen, Einsam-Munkeln— mein Glück! Mein Glück!
12 Nach neuen Meeren.
Dorthin — will ich; und ich traueMir fortan und meinem Griff.Offen liegt das Meer, in’s BlaueTreibt mein Genueser Schiff.
Alles glänzt mir neu und neuer,Mittag schläft auf Raum und Zeit —:Nur dein Auge — ungeheuerBlickt mich’s an, Unendlichkeit!
13 Sils-Maria.
Hier sass ich, wartend, wartend, — doch auf Nichts,Jenseits von Gut und Böse, bald des Lichts
Geniessend, bald des Schattens, ganz nur Spiel,Ganz See, ganz Mittag, ganz Zeit ohne Ziel.
Da, plötzlich, Freundin! wurde Eins zu Zwei —— Und Zarathustra gieng an mir vorbei...
14 An den Mistral.Ein Tanzlied.
Mistral-Wind, du Wolken-Jäger,Trübsal-Mörder, Himmels-Feger,Brausender, wie lieb’ ich dich!Sind wir Zwei nicht Eines SchoossesErstlingsgabe, Eines LoosesVorbestimmte ewiglich?
Hier auf glatten FelsenwegenLauf’ ich tanzend dir entgegen,Tanzend, wie du pfeifst und singst:Der du ohne Schiff und RuderAls der Freiheit freister BruderUeber wilde Meere springst.
Kaum erwacht, hört’ ich dein Rufen,Stürmte zu den Felsenstufen,Hin zur gelben Wand am Meer.Heil! da kamst du schon gleich hellenDiamantnen StromesschnellenSieghaft von den Bergen her.
Auf den ebnen Himmels-TennenSah ich deine Rosse rennen,Sah den Wagen, der dich trägt,
Sah die Hand dir selber zücken,Wenn sie auf der Rosse RückenBlitzesgleich die Geissel schlägt, —
Sah dich aus dem Wagen springen,Schneller dich hinabzuschwingen,Sah dich wie zum Pfeil verkürztSenkrecht in die Tiefe stossen, —Wie ein Goldstrahl durch die RosenErster Morgenröthen stürzt.
Tanze nun auf tausend Rücken,Wellen-Rücken, Wellen-Tücken —Heil, wer neue Tänze schafft!Tanzen wir in tausend Weisen,Frei — sei unsre Kunst geheissen,Fröhlich — unsre Wissenschaft!
Raffen wir von jeder BlumeEine Blüthe uns zum RuhmeUnd zwei Blätter noch zum Kranz!Tanzen wir gleich TroubadourenZwischen Heiligen und Huren,Zwischen Gott und Welt den Tanz!
Wer nicht tanzen kann mit Winden,Wer sich wickeln muss mit Binden,Angebunden, Krüppel-Greis,Wer da gleicht den Heuchel-Hänsen,Ehren-Tölpeln, Tugend-Gänsen,Fort aus unsrem Paradeis!
Wirbeln wir den Staub der StrassenAllen Kranken in die Nasen,
Scheuchen wir die Kranken-Brut!Lösen wir die ganze KüsteVon dem Odem dürrer Brüste,Von den Augen ohne Muth!
Jagen wir die Himmels-Trüber,Welten-Schwärzer, Wolken-Schieber,Hellen wir das Himmelreich!Brausen wir... oh aller freienGeister Geist, mit dir zu ZweienBraust mein Glück dem Sturme gleich. —
— Und dass ewig das GedächtnissSolchen Glücks, nimm sein Vermächtniss,Nimm den Kranz hier mit hinauf!Wirf ihn höher, ferner, weiter,Stürm’ empor die Himmelsleiter,Häng ihn — an den Sternen auf!
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation of the expanded second edition (E. W. Fritzsch, Leipzig, 1887): the preface, the verse prologue “Jest, Cunning and Revenge”, all five books (aphorisms 1–383), and the appendix “Songs of Prince Free-as-a-Bird”. Made directly from the German, read from the printed pages; verse stays verse, and Nietzsche’s own emphases, dashes and numbered divisions are kept.
Appendix:
Songs of Prince Free-as-a-Bird.
1 To Goethe.
The everlastingIs but your image, friend!A god who snares usIs a poet's cunning trick…
The wheel of the world, that rolls,Brushes goal against goal:What the sullen call distress,The fool hails as a game…
The world's imperious gameStirs being and seeming together:—And the eternal jesterStirs us in with it!…
2 The Poet's Calling.
Not long ago, to cool my head,I sat beneath the shady trees,And heard a ticking, softly ticking,Dainty, as if keeping time.I scowled and pulled a face or two,—Till in the end I yielded,And even I, like any poet,Ticked away in step with it.
As I went forging out my verses,Each syllable went hop-la-ing,And all at once I had to laugh,Laugh on for a quarter hour.You, a poet? You, a poet?Has your head gone so far astray?—"Indeed, sir, you're a poet,"Says the woodpecker, with a shrug.
Who is it I am waiting for, here in the thicket?Whom am I lying in wait for, bandit that I am?A saying? A picture? In a flashMy rhyme has hopped onto its back.Whatever flits and skips, the poetSnaps up and fits into a line.—"Indeed, sir, you're a poet,"Says the woodpecker, with a shrug.
Rhymes, I think, are arrows, then:See how the lizard-creatures twitch,Shudder and leap, once the shaftHas pierced their finest parts!Alas, you perish of it, poor wretches,Or reel about as if you'd drunk!—"Indeed, sir, you're a poet,"Says the woodpecker, with a shrug.
Crooked little maxims, in a hurry,Tipsy little words, how they throng!Until, line after line, you allDangle from the ticking chain.And is there some cruel rabbleThat delights in this? Are poets wretched?
—"Indeed, sir, you're a poet,"Says the woodpecker, with a shrug.
Are you jeering, bird? Would you make a joke?If my head is in such a state,What would become of my heart?Beware, beware my rage!—Yet the poet weaves his rhymesEven in his rage, some way or other.—"Indeed, sir, you're a poet,"Says the woodpecker, with a shrug.
3 In the South.
So here I dangle from a crooked boughAnd rock my weariness to sleep.A bird has bid me as its guest:It is a bird's nest where I rest.Where am I? Oh, far! Oh, far!
The white sea lies there, lulled to sleep,And on it stands a sail of purple.Crag, fig trees, tower, and harbor,An idyll all about, the bleating of flocks,—Innocence of the South, receive me!
A step at a time, a mere crawl, is no life:Leg after leg, the German way, weighs heavy.I bade the wind to lift me up,I learned to hover with the birds,—And southward flew I over the sea.
Reason! A wearisome trade!It drives us to the goal far too soon!
In flight I learned what had been mocking me,—And already courage, blood and sapStir me to new life, new play…
To think alone is what the wise do,But to sing alone would be foolish!So hear a song in your honor,And sit around me, quiet, in a ring,You naughty little birds!
So young, so false, so restless,You seem made for nothing but loveAnd every pleasant pastime, do you not?In the North—I own it with a shudder—I loved an old woman, past all bearing:"Truth" was the name of that old crone…
4 The Pious Beppa.
While my figure still is pretty,It pays to be devout.Everyone knows God loves women,The pretty ones especially.He will surely, gladly pardonThe poor little monkFor wanting, like many a little monk,To be with me as much as he can.
No gray church father, this!No, young still, and often flushed,Often, though the morning after's rough,Full of jealousy and grief.
I do not love the old men,And he does not love the old.How strangely and how wiselyGod has ordered it!
The church knows how to live:It looks into the heart and face.It is forever ready to forgive me—Yes, who would not forgive me!One whispers with a little mouth,One curtsies and goes out,And with the newest little sinOne wipes away the old.
Praise God on earth,Who loves the pretty girls,And gladly pardons himselfSuch troubles of the heart.While my figure still is pretty,It pays to be devout:As a tottering old crone,The devil may have me for his bride!
5 The Mysterious Boat.
Last night, when all the world was sleeping,When the wind barely stole through the lanesWith uncertain sighs,My pillow gave me no repose,Nor poppy, nor whatever elseLulls one deep: a clear conscience.
At last I drove the sleepOut of my head and ran down to the shore.It was moonlit and mild. I came uponA man and a boat on the warm sand,Both drowsy, shepherd and sheep:—Drowsily the boat slid off from land.
An hour, perhaps two,Or was it a year?—then all at onceSense and thought went underInto one unending sameness,And an abyss without a boundOpened: and then it was done!
—Morning came: on the black depthsA boat rests, and rests…What happened? someone called, and soonA hundred cried: What was it? Blood?——Nothing happened! We slept, slept,All of us—ah, so sweetly! so sweetly!
6 Declaration of Love
(in the course of which, however, the poet tumbled into a pit—).
O wonder! Is he flying still?He mounts, and yet his wings are still?What lifts him up and bears him so?What now are aim, and pull, and rein?
Like a star, like eternity,He dwells in heights that life unweaves,Pitying even envy:—And high flies whoever sees him float!
O bird Albatross!Toward the heights an endless urge impels me.I thought of you: and then there flowedFrom me tear upon tear,—yes, I love you!
7 Song
of a Theocritean goatherd.
Here I lie, sick in my belly,—The bedbugs feast on me.And over there still lamps and noise!I hear them: they are dancing…
She was to steal to meAt this very hour.I wait, like a dog,—No token comes.
The cross, when she swore it?How could she lie?—Or does she run after everyone,As my goats do?
Where did her silken gown come from?—Ah, my haughty one?Does many another billy goatHaunt this grove, too?
—How sour and venomousWaiting for love makes a man!So in the sultry nightA toadstool sprouts in the garden.
Love gnaws at meLike seven ailments at once,—I can scarcely swallow a bite.Farewell, you onions!
The moon has already gone down in the sea,The stars are all worn out,Gray dawn comes creeping up,—I would gladly die.
8 "To These Uncertain Souls."
Toward these uncertain soulsI am grimly hostile.Their honoring is all a torment,Their praise is self-disgust and shame.
Because I will not pull upon their ropeThrough time,Their poisonously sweet and hopeless envyGreets me in their glances.
I wish they'd curse me heartilyAnd thumb their noses at me!The helpless searching of these eyesShall lose its way with me forever.
9 Fool in Despair.
Ah! What I scrawled on table and wallWith a fool's heart and a fool's hand:Was that meant to grace table and wall for me?…
But you say: "Fools' hands daub,—And table and wall must be scouredUntil the last trace has gone!"
Very well! I'll lend a hand:I've learned to wield the sponge and broom,As critic, as water-carrier.
But once the work is done,I'd gladly see you, you overwise ones,With your wisdom, on table and wall, scrawl…
10 Rimus remedium.
Or: How Sick Poets Comfort Themselves.
From your mouth,You drooling witch, Time,Hour upon hour drips slowly.In vain all my disgust cries out:"A curse, a curse upon the mawOf eternity!"
The world is cast in bronze:A glowing bull,—it hears no cry.With flying daggers, pain writesInto my bones:"The world has no heart,And it would be a fool's errand to be angry at it for that!"
Pour out the poppies,Pour, fever! Poison in my brain!Too long you've felt my hand and brow.What do you ask? What? "For what reward?"—Ha! A curse upon the wenchAnd her contempt!
No! Come back!It is cold outside, I hear the rain—Should I greet you more tenderly?—Take it! Here is gold: how the coin gleams!—Shall I call you "happiness"?Shall I bless you, fever?—
The door bursts open!The rain sprays toward my bed!The wind snuffs out the light,—ruin upon ruin!—Whoever had not a hundred rhymes just now,I wager, I wager,Would be lost outright!
11 "My Happiness!"
I see the doves of San Marco once more:The square is hushed, the morning rests on it.In the gentle coolness I idly loose my songsInto the blue, like flocks of doves,—And call them back again,To hang one more rhyme among their feathers—my happiness! my happiness!
O quiet roof of heaven, light blue, silken,How you hover, shielding, over the bright buildingThat I—what am I saying?—love, fear, envy…I'd gladly drink my soul dry for it!Would I ever give it back?—No, hush about it, you wondrous feast for the eyes!—my happiness! my happiness!
O stern tower, with what lion's strideYou rose up here, victorious, effortlessly!You ring out over the square in a deep tone:Are you, in French, its accent aigu?If I stayed behind, as you do,I'd know what silken bonds hold me…—my happiness! my happiness!
Away, away, music! First let the shadows darkenAnd swell until the brown and gentle night!It is too early in the day for music yet; the gold ornamentsDo not glitter in their rosy splendor.Much day is still left,Much day for poems, for stealing off, for murmuring alone—my happiness! my happiness!
12 To New Seas.
There—that is where I mean to go; and henceforth I trustMyself, and my grip.The sea lies open, and into the blueMy Genoese ship drives on.
Everything shines fresher, ever fresher,Noon sleeps on space and time:—Only your eye, immense,Gazes at me, infinity!
13 Sils-Maria.
Here I sat, waiting, waiting—for nothing,Beyond good and evil, savoring now the light,
Now the shadow, all of it mere play,All lake, all noon, all time with no aim.
Then, all at once, my friend! One became two——And Zarathustra strode past me…
14 To the Mistral.
A Dance Song.
Mistral, wind, you cloud-hunter,Murderer of gloom, sweeper of the sky,Roarer, how I love you!Are we not, the pair of us,The first-fruits of one womb,Foreordained to one lot forever?
Here on smooth rocky pathsI run and dance to meet you,Dancing as you whistle and sing,You who, with neither ship nor oar,As freedom's freest brother,Leap across the wild seas.
Scarce awake, I heard your summons,Rushed to the rocky steps,Down to the yellow wall above the sea.Hail! There you came, already brightAs diamond rapids of a river,Triumphant from the mountains.
On heaven's level threshing floorsI saw your horses gallop,I saw the chariot that bears you,
I saw your own hand flashWhen it brings the whip downOn the horses' backs, like lightning,—
I saw you leap down from the chariotTo swing yourself down faster.I saw you, shortened like an arrow,Plunge straight down into the depths,—Like a golden ray that fallsThrough the roses of the first dawns.
Now dance on a thousand backs,Backs of waves, the waves' deceits!Hail to whoever makes new dances!Let us dance in a thousand ways.Let our art be called "free,"Our science "gay"!
Let us pluck from every flowerOne blossom for our fame,And two leaves more for the wreath!Let us dance like troubadoursBetween the saints and the whores,Between God and the world, a dance!
Whoever cannot dance with the winds,Whoever must wrap himself in bandages,Trussed up, a crippled old man,Whoever resembles the hypocrite geese,The honor-clods, the virtue-geese,Out of our paradise with him!
Let us whirl the dust of the streetsInto the noses of all the sick,
Let us frighten off the sick brood!Let us free the whole coastFrom the breath of withered chestsAnd from eyes that have no courage!
Let us chase the sky-darkeners,World-blackeners, cloud-shovers,Let us brighten the kingdom of heaven!Let us roar… O spirit of all freeSpirits, with you, the two of us,My happiness roars like a storm.—
—And that the memory of such happinessMay last forever, take its bequest,Take this wreath up with you!Hurl it higher, farther, further,Storm up the ladder of heaven,Hang it—on the stars!
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made directly from the same 1887 German text, division by division and aphorism by aphorism. Same divisions and numbering; it explains what Nietzsche’s compressed German leaves implicit instead of imitating its cadence.
Appendix:
Songs of Prince Free-as-a-Bird.
1 To Goethe.
What lasts foreverIs only your image!God, the tricky one,Is a poets' swindle…
The rolling wheel of the worldBrushes past goal after goal:Necessity—the grumbler calls it,The fool calls it—play…
The domineering play of the worldMixes being and appearance:—The eternally foolishMixes us—in!…
2 The Poet's Calling.
Lately, to refresh myself,I sat under dark trees,I heard a ticking, a soft ticking,Neat, as if by beat and measure.I got angry and made faces,—But at last I gave in,Until I even, like a poet,Spoke in tick-tock myself.
While I was making verses,Syllable by syllable did its hop-la,I suddenly had to laugh, laughFor a quarter of an hour.You a poet? You a poet?Is your head in such bad shape?—"Yes, sir, you are a poet,"Says the woodpecker with a shrug.
What am I waiting for here in the bush?Whom am I lying in ambush for, robber that I am?Is it a saying? A picture? In a flashMy rhyme is sitting on its back.Whatever slips and hops, the poet at onceCuts it to fit a verse.—"Yes, sir, you are a poet,"Says the woodpecker with a shrug.
Rhymes, I think, are like arrows?How it twitches, trembles, jumpsWhen the arrow pierces the vital partsOf the little lizard body!Ah, you die of it, poor little wretches,Or stagger as if drunk!—"Yes, sir, you are a poet,"Says the woodpecker with a shrug.
Crooked little sayings in a rush,Drunken little words, how they crowd!Until all of you, line by line,Hang on the tick-tock chain.And there is a cruel pack of riffraffThat likes this? Are poets—bad?
—"Yes, sir, you are a poet,"Says the woodpecker with a shrug.
Are you mocking, bird? Do you want to joke?If my head is already in bad shape,Would it be worse with my heart?Fear, fear my wrath!—But the poet—he weaves rhymesEven in wrath, after a fashion.—"Yes, sir, you are a poet,"Says the woodpecker with a shrug.
3 In the South.
So here I hang on a crooked branchAnd rock my weariness.A bird invited me here as a guest,It is a bird's nest where I rest.Where am I? Ah, far! Ah, far!
The white sea lies asleep,And a purple sail stands on it.Rock, fig trees, tower and harbor,Idyll all around, bleating of sheep,—Innocence of the South, take me in!
Only step by step—that is no life,Always one leg before the other makes you German and heavy.I told the wind to lift me upward,I learned to float with the birds,—To the south I flew over the sea.
Reason! Irksome business!It brings us to the goal all too soon!
In flying I learned what had been fooling me,—Already I feel courage and blood and sapFor new life, new play…
To think alone I call wise,But to sing alone would be stupid!So hear a song in your praiseAnd sit quietly around me in a circle,You naughty little birds!
So young, so false, so restless,You seem to me made entirely for loveAnd for every pleasant pastime?In the north—I confess it with hesitation—I loved a woman so old it made me shudder:"The Truth" was the name of this old woman…
4 The Pious Beppa.
As long as my figure is still pretty,It pays to be pious.Everyone knows God loves women,The pretty ones as well.He will certainly gladly forgiveThe poor little monkFor wanting, like many a little monk,To be with me so much.
No gray church father!No, still young and often red,Often, in spite of the worst hangover,Full of jealousy and distress.
I do not love old men,He does not love the old:How strangely and wiselyGod has arranged this!
The church knows how to live,It examines heart and face.It always wants to forgive me,—Yes, who doesn't forgive me!One whispers with a little mouth,One curtsies and goes out,And with the new little sinOne wipes out the old.
Praise to God on earth,Who loves pretty girlsAnd gladly forgives himselfSuch troubles of the heart.As long as my figure is still pretty,It pays to be pious:As a shaky old womanMay the devil marry me!
5 The Mysterious Boat.
Last night, when everything slept,When the wind barely ran with uncertainSighs through the lanes,The pillow gave me no rest,Nor did the poppy, nor what elseMakes one sleep deeply—a good conscience.
At last I put sleepOut of my mind and ran to the shore,It was moonlit and mild,—I foundA man and a boat on the warm sand,Both drowsy, shepherd and sheep:—Drowsily the boat pushed off from land.
One hour, maybe two,Or was it a year?—then suddenlyMy senses and thoughts sankInto an eternal sameness,And a boundless abyssOpened up:—then it was over!
—Morning came: on black depthsA boat stands and rests and rests…What happened? someone called, and soonA hundred called: What was it? Blood?——Nothing happened! We slept, slept,All of us—ah, so well! so well!
6 Declaration of Love
(in the course of which, however, the poet fell into a pit—).
Oh wonder! Is he still flying?He rises up, and his wings are at rest?What lifts and carries him?What are goal and pull and reins to him now?
Like star and eternityHe now lives in heights that life flees,Compassionate even toward envy—:And high flew whoever even just sees him float!
Oh bird Albatross!An eternal drive pushes me to the heights.I thought of you: then tearAfter tear flowed from me,—yes, I love you!
7 Song
of a Theocritean Goatherd.
Here I lie, sick in my guts,—The bedbugs are eating me.And over there still light and noise!I hear it, they are dancing…
She was going to sneak over to meAt this hour.I wait like a dog,—No sign comes.
The cross, when she promised it?How could she lie?—Or does she run after everyoneLike my goats?
Where did her silk skirt come from?—Ah, my proud one?Does many another billy goat liveNear this wood?
—How twisted and poisonousWaiting in love makes one!So on a sultry nightA poisonous mushroom grows in the garden.
Love eats away at meLike seven illnesses,—I can hardly eat anything.Farewell, you onions!
The moon has already gone into the sea,All the stars are tired,Gray comes the day,—I would gladly die.
8 "To These Uncertain Souls."
Toward these uncertain soulsI am fiercely hostile.All their honoring is torment,All their praise is self-disgust and shame.
Because I do not pull on their ropeThrough time,The poisonous-sweet, hopeless envyOf their looks greets me for it.
I wish they would curse me heartilyAnd thumb their noses at me!The helpless searching of these eyesShall go astray with me forever.
9 Fool in Despair.
Ah! What I wrote on table and wallWith a fool's heart and a fool's hand,Was that supposed to adorn table and wall for me?…
But you say: "Fools' hands scribble,—And table and wall must be cleanedUntil even the last trace is gone!"
Allow me! I will lend a hand—,I learned to work sponge and broom,As a critic, as a water-bearer.
But when the work is done,I would gladly see you, you over-wise ones,With wisdom, on table and wall, sh......
10 Rimus remedium.
Or: How Sick Poets Console Themselves.
From your mouth,You drooling witch, Time,Hour after hour drips slowly.In vain all my disgust cries:"A curse, a curse on the mawOf eternity!"
The world—is made of bronze:A glowing bull,—it hears no screaming.With flying daggers pain writesInto my bones:"The world has no heart,And it would be stupid to be angry at it for that!"
Pour out all the poppies,Pour, fever! Poison into my brain!You have been testing my hand and forehead too long.What are you asking? What? "For what—wages?"—Ha! A curse on the hussyAnd her scorn!
No! Come back!It's cold outside, I hear rain—Should I meet you more tenderly?—Take it! Here is gold: how the coin shines!—Call you "happiness"?Bless you, fever?—
The door flies open!The rain sprays toward my bed!Wind blows out the light,—disaster in heaps!—Whoever didn't have a hundred rhymes now,I bet, I bet,Would be done for!
11 "My Happiness!"
I see the doves of San Marco again:The square is quiet, morning rests on it.In the gentle coolness I idly send songsUp into the blue like flocks of doves—And I call them back,To hang one more rhyme in their feathers—my happiness! My happiness!
You quiet roof of heaven, light blue, of silk,How you hover protectively over the colorful buildingThat I—what am I saying?—love, fear, envy…I would truly gladly drink my soul dry for it!Would I ever give it back?—No, quiet about that, you wonderful feast for the eyes!—my happiness! My happiness!
You stern tower, with what lion's urgeYou rose up here, victorious, without effort!You ring over the square with a deep sound:In French, would you be its accent aigu?If I stayed behind like you,I would know from what silk-soft constraint…—my happiness! My happiness!
Away, away, music! First let the shadows darkenAnd grow until the brown, mild night!It is too early in the day for music, the gold ornamentsAre not yet sparkling in rose-colored splendor,Much day is still left,Much day for writing poems, creeping, muttering alone—my happiness! My happiness!
12 To New Seas.
There—that is where I want to go; and from now on I trustMyself and my grip.The sea lies open, into the blueMy Genoese ship drives.
Everything shines newer and newer to me,Noon sleeps on space and time—:Only your eye—enormousIt looks at me, infinity!
13 Sils-Maria.
Here I sat, waiting, waiting—but for nothing,Beyond good and evil, now enjoying the light,
Now the shadow, all of it just play,All lake, all noon, all time without a goal.
Then, suddenly, my friend! One became two——And Zarathustra walked past me…
14 To the Mistral.
A Dance Song.
Mistral wind, you cloud-chaser,Killer of gloom, sweeper of the sky,You roaring one, how I love you!Are we two not the first giftOf one womb, destinedFor one fate forever?
Here on smooth rocky pathsI run dancing to meet you,Dancing as you whistle and sing:You who, without ship or oar,As freedom's freest brotherLeap over wild seas.
Barely awake, I heard you calling,I rushed to the rocky steps,To the yellow wall by the sea.Hurrah! There you came, already like brightDiamond rapids of a river,Victorious from the mountains.
On the level threshing floors of heavenI saw your horses run,I saw the carriage that carries you,
I saw your own hand flashWhen it brings the whip downOn the horses' backs like lightning,—
I saw you leap from the carriage,To swing yourself down faster,I saw you, shortened like an arrow,Strike straight down into the depths,—Like a golden ray plunging through the rosesOf the first dawns.
Dance now on a thousand backs,Backs of waves, tricks of waves—Hurrah for whoever creates new dances!Let us dance in a thousand ways,"Free"—let our art be called,"Joyful"—our science!
Let us snatch from every flowerOne blossom for our fameAnd two more leaves for the wreath!Let us dance like troubadoursBetween saints and whores,The dance between God and world!
Whoever cannot dance with the winds,Whoever has to wrap themselves in bandages,Tied up, a crippled old man,Whoever resembles the hypocrite fellows,The honor-oafs, the virtue-geese,Out of our paradise!
Let us whirl the dust of the streetsInto the noses of all the sick,
Let us scare off the sick brood!Let us free the whole coastFrom the breath of withered chests,From eyes without courage!
Let us chase the sky-clouders,World-blackeners, cloud-pushers,Let us brighten the kingdom of heaven!Let us roar… oh spirit of all freeSpirits, with you, the two of us,My happiness roars like the storm.—
—And so that the memory of such happinessMay last forever, take its legacy,Take this wreath up with you!Throw it higher, farther, further,Storm up the ladder of heaven,Hang it—on the stars!
About this section
Songs of Prince Free-as-a-Bird is part of The Gay Science by Friedrich Nietzsche. This page sets the German original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is book 9 of 9 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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