Page:Thus Spake Zarathustra - Alexander Tille - 1896.djvu/471

 THE SONG OF MELANCHOLY 437

Not become an image, A statue of a God ; Not set up in front of temples, A God's usher.

Nay ! an enemy unto such statues of virtue, More at home in any wilderness than in temples, Full of a cat's wantonness, Leaping through every window, Swiftly, into every chance, Led by its scent into every primeval forest, In order to roam about in primeval forests, Among many-coloured shaggy beasts of prey, Sinfully-healthy and beautiful and many-coloured, To run about with longing lips, Blissfully-mocking, blissfully-hellish, blissfully-blood- thirsty, Preying, stealing, lying.

Or like the eagle that long,

Long gazeth benumbed into abysses,

Into its own abysses !

Oh, how they here wriggle downwards,

Down, down

Into ever deeper depths !

Then,

Suddenly,

With straight flight,

With a sharp attack,

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