Page:Complete works of Nietzsche vol 10.djvu/374

362  While beauty in my face is, With piety I'll stand, When age has killed my graces, Let Satan claim my hand! 

 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! 