The Joyful Wisdom · Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
THE BOAT OF MYSTERY.
Yester-eve, when all things slept— Scarce a breeze to stir the lane— I a restless vigil kept, Nor from pillows sleep could gain, Nor from poppies nor—most sure Of opiates—a conscience pure. Thoughts of rest I 'gan forswear, Rose and walked along the strand, Found, in warm and moonlit air, Man and boat upon the sand, Drowsy both, and drowsily Did the boat put out to sea. Passed an hour or two perchance, Or a year? then thought and sense Vanished in the engulfing trance Of a vast Indifference. Fathomless, abysses dread Opened—then the vision fled. Morning came: becalmed, the boat Rested on the purple flood: "What had happened?" every throat Shrieked the question: "was there—Blood?" Naught had happened! On the swell We had slumbered, oh, so well! (_during which, however, the poet fell into a pit_). Oh marvel! there he flies Cleaving the sky with wings unmoved—what force Impels him, bids him rise, What curb restrains him? Where's his goal, his course? Like stars and time eterne He liveth now in heights that life forswore, Nor envy's self doth spurn: A lofty flight were't, e'en to see him soar! Oh albatross, great bird, Speeding me upward ever through the blue! I thought of her, was stirred To tears unending—yea, I love her true!
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.