ence.

Utterance have I become altogether, and the brawling of a brook from
high rocks: downward into the valleys will I hurl my speech.

And let the stream of my love sweep into unfrequented channels! How
should a stream not finally find its way to the sea!

Forsooth, there is a lake in me, sequestered and self-sufficing; but the
stream of my love beareth this along with it, down--to the sea!

New paths do I tread, a new speech cometh unto me; tired have I become--
like all creators--of the old tongues. No longer will my spirit walk on
worn-out soles.

Too slowly runneth all speaking for me:--into thy chariot, O storm, do I
leap! And even thee will I whip with my spite!

Like a cry and an huzza will I traverse wide seas, till I find the Happy
Isles where my friends sojourn;--

And mine enemies amongst them! How I now love every one unto whom I may
but speak! Even mine enemies pertain to my bliss.

And when I want to mount my wildest horse, then doth my spear always
help me up best: it is my foot's ever ready servant:--

The spear which I hurl at mine enemies! How grateful am I to mine
enemies that I may at last hurl it!

Too great hath been the tension of my cloud: 'twixt laughters of
lightnings will I cast hail-showers into the depths.

Violently will my breast then heave; violently will it blow its storm
over the mountains: thus cometh its assuagement.

Verily, like a storm cometh my happiness, and my freedom! But mine
enemies shall think that THE EVIL ONE roareth over their heads.

Yea, ye also, my friends, will be alarmed by my wild wisdom; and perhaps
ye will flee therefrom, along with mine enemies.

Ah, that I knew how to lure you back with shepherds' flutes! Ah, that
my lioness wisdom would learn to roar softly! And much have we already
learned with one another!

My wild wisdom became pregnant on the lonesome mountains; on the rough
stones did she bear the youngest of her young.

Now runneth she foolishly in the arid wilderness, and seeketh and
seeketh the soft sward--mine old, wild wisdom!

On the soft sward of your hearts, my friends!--on your love, would she
fain couch her dearest one!--

Thus spake Zarathustra.

XXIV. IN THE HAPPY ISLES.

The figs fall from the trees, they are good and sweet; and in falling
the red skins of them break. A north wind am I to ripe figs.

Thus, like figs, do these doctrines fall for you, my friends: imbibe
now their juice and their sweet substance