e sweetwood-heart
Purselets!
Weep ye no more,
Pallid Dudu!
Be a man, Suleika! Bold! Bold!
--Or else should there perhaps
Something strengthening, heart-strengthening,
Here most proper be?
Some inspiring text?
Some solemn exhortation?--
Ha! Up now! honour!
Moral honour! European honour!
Blow again, continue,
Bellows-box of virtue!
Ha!
Once more thy roaring,
Thy moral roaring!
As a virtuous lion
Nigh the daughters of deserts roaring!
--For virtue's out-howl,
Ye very dearest maidens,
Is more than every
European fervour, European hot-hunger!
And now do I stand here,
As European,
I can't be different, God's help to me!
Amen!

THE DESERTS GROW: WOE HIM WHO DOTH THEM HIDE!

LXXVII. THE AWAKENING.

1.

After the song of the wanderer and shadow, the cave became all at once
full of noise and laughter: and since the assembled guests all spake
simultaneously, and even the ass, encouraged thereby, no longer
remained silent, a little aversion and scorn for his visitors came over
Zarathustra, although he rejoiced at their gladness. For it seemed to
him a sign of convalescence. So he slipped out into the open air and
spake to his animals.

"Whither hath their distress now gone?" said he, and already did he
himself feel relieved of his petty disgust--"with me, it seemeth that
they have unlearned their cries of distress!

--Though, alas! not yet their crying." And Zarathustra stopped his
ears, for just then did the YE-A of the ass mix strangely with the noisy
jubilation of those higher men.

"They are merry," he began again, "and who knoweth? perhaps at their
host's expense; and if they have learned of me to laugh, still it is not
MY laughter they have learned.

But what matter about that! They are old people: they recover in their
own way, they laugh in their own way; mine ears have already endured
worse and have not become peevish.

This day is a victory: he already yieldeth, he fleeth, THE SPIRIT OF
GRAVITY, mine old arch-enemy! How well this day is about to end, which
began so badly and gloomily!

And it is ABOUT TO end. Already cometh the evening: over the sea
rideth it hither, the good rider! How it bobbeth, the blessed one, the
home-returning one, in its purple saddles!

The sky gazeth brightly thereon, the world lieth deep. Oh, all ye
strange ones who have come t