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And it is a dead man that sings: Menschen waren wir ja auch, Froh und traurig, so wie Ihr. Und nun sind wir leblos hier, Sind nur Erde, wie Ihr sehet. At the moment he was writing this song, in the short respite he had from his illness, he himself was nearly a dead man.
Her "Geliebter, komm" is another piece of magic. The very essence of sensuality is in it, and never was sin made to seem so lovely. One great theme follows another. "Hin zu den kalten Menschen flieh'" is almost Schubertian in its spontaneity. The music never flags; there are scarcely any of the old formulas not even, for example, to express Venus's anger; the fund of melody seems inexhaustible.
We measure the total character of the universe as we feel it, against the flavor of the philosophy proffered us, and one word is enough. "Statt der lebendigen Natur," we say, "da Gott die Menschen schuf hinein" that nebulous concoction, that wooden, that straight-laced thing, that crabbed artificiality, that musty schoolroom product, that sick man's dream! Away with it. Away with all of them!
"Families of animals and plants," writes one of the greatest anatomists of the day, Johannes Müller, in his noble and comprehensive work, "Physiologie des Menschen," "undergo, within certain limitations peculiar to the different races and species, various modifications in their distribution over the surface of the earth, propagating these variations as organic types of species.
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