Live always in your inner-life
And open not its door,
Because for joys of life you give
A part of you and more.
In strife I spent my inner-life,
Now its songs I oft repeat.
On wings of song sped life itself . . .
My heart, why do you beat?
I finish now my plaintive song
And lay aside the Lyre,
I have lost my faith in its very strings,
In myself and my desire.
The strings send forth an anguished strain
Of beauty’s withered flowers,
Of squandered youth, of wasted days,
Of buried, ill-spent hours.
The strings have snapped and loosely hang
Like a widow’s grief-torn hair,
But still they ring so madly sweet
Like Aeol’s harp, in air.
MAN USED TO SAY
What am I? A lonely man twixt the world’s wide spheres.
Humility forbids me to brag and rave;
But turn your eyes upon a royal court
There you will know a master from the slave.
I am on friendly terms with the Sun and the Stars
Yet they, with all their bright splendor,
Stand ever meekly, far away,
On their cheeks, a smile of surrender.
MAN NOW SAYS:
Like pacing lions we strike at the bars,
Like lions in a cage.
We would rise up to the heaven’s heights,
But are held by the Earth in helpless rage.
We seem to hear a voice from the stars;
“Come higher, away from your toil.
Come closer, conceited, arrogant men
Held by the bonds of your soil.”
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