| Ever since a sweet familiar note
|
| drew me from my fearful bog
|
| and deceived the remnants of my childlike faith
|
| with allusions to a gladder day,
|
| I curse all things that now entice my soul
|
| with glittering toys and fantasies
|
| and ensnare it in this cave of pain
|
1590
| with flattering hocus-pocus and with tinsel bait.
|
| I curse the high opinion, first of all,
|
| with which the mind deludes itself!
|
| I curse the glare of mere appearance
|
| that presses hard upon our senses.
|
| I curse the lies of our fondest dreams,
|
| their promises of glory and of lasting fame!
|
| I curse what flatters us as fine possessions,
|
| wife and child, and serf and plow!
|
| I curse Mammon and his golden treasures,
|
1600
| inciting us to daring enterprise,
|
| and all his silken cushions
|
| on which to loll in pillowed ease.
|
| My curse upon the blessings of the grape!
|
| My curse on lovers’ highest consummation!
|
| My curse on Hope! My curse on Faith,
|
| and my curse on Patience most of all!
|
| Stop playing games with your affliction,
|
| which like a vulture feeds upon your life.
|
| The lowest company will yet allow
|
| for you to be a full-fledged man among the rest.
|
| But never fear, I do not wish
|
1640
| to throw you to the common pack.
|
| I am not really so great myself,
|
| but if you travel at my side
|
| and make your way through life with me,
|
| then I shall do the best I can
|
| to be your friend in need
|
| and your traveling companion;
|
| And if I do things as you like,
|
| you’ll have me as your servant and your slave.
|
1660
| With that
beyond
I scarcely bother.
|
| Once we smash this world to bits,
|
| the other world may rise for all I care.
|
| From this earth spring all my joys;
|
| it’s this sun which shines on all my sorrows.
|
| Once I must take my leave of them,
|
| then come what may, it is of no concern.
|
| I wish to hear no more discussion
|
| on whether love and hate persist forever,
|
| or whether in those other spheres
|
1670
| the up and down be much like ours.
|
| What, poor devil, can you offer?
|
| Was ever human spirit in its highest striving
|
| comprehended by the like of you?
|
| You offer food which does not satisfy,
|
| red gold which moves unsteadily,
|
1680
| quicksilver-like between one’s fingers.
|
| You offer sports where no one gains the prize,
|
| a girl perhaps who in my very arms
|
| hangs on another with conspiring eyes.
|
| Honors that the world bestows on man
|
| which vanish like a shooting star.
|
| Show me the fruit that rots before it’s plucked
|
| and trees that grow their greenery anew each day!
|
| Let’s shake on it!
|
| If ever I should tell the moment:
|
1700
| Oh, stay! You are so beautiful!
|
| Then you may cast me into chains,
|
| then I shall smile upon perdition!
|
| Then may the hour toll for me,
|
| then you are free to leave my service.
|
| The clock may halt, the clock hand fall,
|
| and time come to an end for me!
|
| The pedant wants a legal document!
|
| Have you never known a man who keeps his word?
|
| Is it not enough that what I speak
|
| shall govern all my living days?
|
1720
| Does not the world race by in tides and streams?
|
| And why should I be shackled by a promise?
|
| It’s a deep-ingrained delusion,
|
| we do not easily part with it.
|
| Blessed is he who keeps his own integrity;
|
| he will not rue the greatest sacrifice!
|
| A skin inscribed and stamped officially
|
| is like a specter to be feared and best avoided.
|
| The word is dead before it leaves the pen,
|
| and wax and leather rule the day.
|
1730
| What do you, evil spirit, want of me?
|
| Metal, marble, parchment, paper?
|
| Shall I write with stylus, chisel, pen?
|
| Feel free to exercise your option.
|
| Be not afraid that I might break this pact!
|
| The sum and essence of my striving
|
| is the very thing I promise you.
|
| I had become too overblown,
|
| while actually I only rank with you.
|
| Ever since the mighty spirit turned from me,
|
| Nature kept her doorway closed.
|
| The threads of thought are torn to pieces,
|
| and learning has become repugnant.
|
1750
| Let in the throes of raging senses
|
| seething passions quench my thirst!
|
| In never lifted magic veils
|
| let every miracle take form!
|
| Let me plunge into the rush of passing time,
|
| into the rolling tide of circumstance!
|
| Then let sorrow and delight,
|
| frustration or success,
|
| occur in turn as happenstance;
|
| restless action is the state of man.
|
