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Every pain hath torn thy heart, father-pain, fathers'-pain, forefathers'-pain; thy speech hath become ripe, Ripe like the golden autumn and the afternoon, like mine anchorite heart now sayest thou: The world itself hath become ripe, the grape turneth brown, Now doth it wish to die, to die of happiness. Ye higher men, do ye not feel it? There welleth up mysteriously an odour,
May they guide Thy servants unto gentle waters and to the fountain of Thy mercy that welleth and leapeth in the midmost heart of the Heaven of Thy oneness.
I am the door the thing did find To pass into the general mind; I cannot say I think I only stand upon the thought-well's brink; From darkness to the sun the water bubbles up I lift it in my cup. Thou only thinkest I am thought; Me and my thought thou thinkest. Nought Am I but as a fountain spout From which thy water welleth out. Thou art the only One, the All in all.
I am the door the thing did find To pass into the general mind; I cannot say I think I only stand upon the thought-well's brink; From darkness to the sun the water bubbles up I lift it in my cup. Thou only thinkest I am thought; Me and my thought thou thinkest. Nought Am I but as a fountain spout From which thy water welleth out. Thou art the only One, the All in all.
Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretcheth out to it; hesitating like the cascade, which hesitateth even in its leap: thus do I hunger for wickedness! Such revenge doth mine abundance think of: such mischief welleth out of my lonesomeness. My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing; my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance!
Not, however, until thou consumest with the flame of utter detachment those veils of idle learning, that are current amongst men, canst thou behold the resplendent morn of true knowledge. Know verily that Knowledge is of two kinds: Divine and Satanic. The one welleth out from the fountain of divine inspiration; the other is but a reflection of vain and obscure thoughts.
To the House 'neath the mountain we came in the morn, Where welleth the fountain up over the corn, And the stream is a-running fast on to the House Of the neighbours uncunning who quake at the mouse, As their slumber is broken; they know not for why; Since yestreen was not token on earth or in sky. Come, up, then up!
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