1.
Round about the city rests. The illuminated streets grow Quiet, and coaches rush along, adorned with torches.
Men go home to rest, filled with the day's pleasures; Busy minds weigh up profit and loss contentedly At home. The busy marketplace comes to rest, Vacant now of flowers and grapes and crafts.
But the music of strings sounds in distant gardens: Perhaps lovers play there, or a lonely man thinks About distant friends, and about his own youth. Rushing fountains flow by fragrant flower beds,
Bells ring softly in the twilight air, and a watchman Calls out the hour, mindful of the time.
Now a breeze rises and touches the crest of the grove — Look how the moon, like the shadow of our earth,
Also rises stealthily! Phantastical night comes, Full of stars, unconcerned probably about us — Astonishing night shines, a stranger among humans, Sadly over the mountain tops, in splendor. 2.
The kindness of exalted Night is wonderful, and no one Knows where she comes from, or what will emerge from her.
Thus she moves the world, and the hopeful minds of humans: Not even a sage knows what she's up to.
The highest god, who loves you very much, wants it so; Therefore you prefer reasonable day to the night.
But occasionally a clear eye loves the shadows as well, And tries to sleep just for pleasure, before it's necessary,
Or a brave person likes to gaze directly into the Night: Surely it's right to dedicate wreaths and songs to her,
Since she is holy to those who are lost or dead, although She herself exists totally free in spirit, forever.
But she must grant us oblivion and holy drunkenness, That in the hesitating interval, in the darkness,
There'll be something for us to hold on to. She must grant us flowing words, sleepless As lovers are, and a fuller cup, and bolder life, and Holy remembrance as well, to stay wakeful at night. 3.
We, masters and apprentices both, hide our hearts In vain, and repress our enthusiasm for no reason.
For who could stop it, or forbid us our pleasure? The fire of the gods drives us to set forth by day And by night. So come, let us look at what is apparent, And seek what is ours, as distant as it may be!
One thing is certain: a standard always exists, at noon Or at midnight, common to all of us. But also To each of us something personal is granted; Everyone goes and comes where he can.
Thus playful madness may mock mockery itself, Seizing singers suddenly in the holy night.
Then let's be off to the Isthmus! There, where The open sea roars at Parnassus, and the snow Shines around the Delphian cliffs, There in the land of Olympus, on Cithaeron's peak,
Under the pines, amid vineyards, from which Thebes and Ismenos roar in the land of Cadmus.
The approaching god comes from there, and points back. 4.
Holy Greece! Home of all the gods — so it's true, What once we heard when we were young?
A festival hall, whose floor is the ocean, whose tables Are the mountains — anciently built for a single purpose.
But where are the thrones? Where the temples, the songs, The vases full of nectar for the pleasure of the gods?
Where are the oracles that shine for miles and miles? Delphi sleeps, and where does great Fate resound?
Where does Fate suddenly break forth, full of omnipresent Joy, thundering out of clear air over our eyes?
Father Aether! It called and flew from tongue to tongue A thousand times, and nobody had to endure life alone.
Shared, such fortune is a joy; exchanged with strangers, It becomes jubilant. Sleeping, the power of the word grows:
Father! Joyful! The ancient sign resounds, as far it reaches, Inherited from the elders, striking, creating.
Thus the gods enter; thus the season of the gods falls From the shadows down to men, shaking the depths. 5.
At first the gods come unperceived. Children try to get Near them. But their glory dazzles and blinds and Awakens fear. A demi-god scarcely knows the people By name, who now approach him with gifts. But their Courage is great. Their joy fills his heart, and he hardly Knows what to do with the offerings. He busies himself And becomes wasteful, and unholy things almost become holy, Which he touches with a blessing hand, foolishly and kindly.
The gods tolerate it as long as they can, and then in truth They appear themselves. And people become accustomed To this fortune, to the daytime, and to the sight of the manifest Ones, the faces of those formerly called the "One and All,"Deeply making every silent breast content, and first and alone Filling every desire. It's the way people are. When
Good appears, and even when it's a god that provides them With gifts, they don't see or recognize it. First they have To get used to it; then they call it their closest possession. And only then will words of praise arise, like flowers. 6.
And now they prepare in earnest to honor the holy gods. Everything must really and truly proclaim their praise.
Nothing displeasing to the high ones may come to light. Idle endeavors aren't proper for the Aether.
Therefore, to stand worthily in the presence of the gods, Nations rise in splendid order and beautiful Temples and cities are built, strong and noble, which rise Above the banks of the waters —but where are they?
Where are the famous, flourishing cities, crowning the festival? Thebes and Athens are fading. Don't the weapons clash At Olympus, or golden chariots at the games?
Are there No longer wreaths to decorate the ships of Corinth?
Why are the ancient holy theaters silent? What happened to the joyful ceremonial dancing?
Why doesn't a god place his sign on a human forehead, Leaving his mark on the person he has struck?
Or, as gods used to, come comfortingly, and assume human Shape, then complete and close the festival of the gods? 7.
But friend, we come too late. It's true that the gods live, But up over our heads, up in a different world.
They function endlessly up there, and seem to care little If we live or die, so much do they avoid us.
A weak vessel cannot hold them forever; humans can Endure the fullness of the gods only at times. Therefore Life itself becomes a dream about them. But perplexity And sleep assist us: distress and night-time strengthen,
Until enough heroes have grown in the bronze cradle, With hearts as strong as the gods', as it used to be.
Thundering they arise. Meanwhile I often think it is Better to stay asleep, than to exist without companions,
Just waiting it out, not knowing what to do or say In the meantime. What use are poets in times of need?
But you'll say they're like holy priests of the wine god, Moving from land to land in the holy night. 8. Some time ago — to us it seems like a long time — All those who made our lives happy climbed upwards.
The Father turned his face away from people, And sorrow came rightly upon the earth.
Finally a quiet genius appeared, comforting in a god-like Way, who announced the end of the day, and disappeared.
The choir of gods left some gifts behind, as a sign Of their presence and eventual return, which we May appreciate in our human fashion, as we used to. That which is superior had grown too great for pleasure With spirit among men. And to this day no one's strong enough For the highest joys, although some gratitude survives quietly.
Bread is the fruit of the earth, yet it's blessed also by light. The pleasure of wine comes from the thundering god.
We remember the gods thereby, those who were once With us, and who'll return when the time is right.
Thus poets sing of the wine god in earnest, and their Ringing praises of the old one aren't devised in vain. 9.
Yes, they say rightly that he reconciles day with night, And leads the stars of heaven up and down forever — Joyful always, like the boughs of evergreen pine That he loves, and the wreath he chose of ivy,
Since it endures, and brings a trace of the fugitive gods Down to the darkness of those who must live in their absence.
What the sons of the ancients foretold of God's children: Look, it's us, the fruit of Hesperia!
Through humans it is wonderfully and exactly fulfilled; Let those believe who've examined the matter. But so much Goes on, yet nothing succeeds: we are like heartless shadows Until our Father Aether recognizes us and belongs to us all.
Meanwhile the Son, the Syrian, comes down among The shadows, as torchbearer of the Highest.
Holy sages observe it; a smile shines out from The imprisoned soul; their eyes thaw in the light.
Titans dream more softly, asleep in the arms of the earth— Even jealous Cerberus drinks and falls asleep.
