She hath her eye, her laugh, and even her golden angle-rod; am I responsible for it that both are so alike?

And when once Life asked me: ‘Who is she then, this Wisdom?’ Then said I eagerly: ‘Ah, yes! Wisdom!

One thirsteth for her and is not satisfied, one looketh through veils, one graspeth through nets.

Is she beautiful? What do I know! But the oldest carps are still lured by her.

Changeable is she, and wayward; often have I seen her bite her lip, and pass the comb against the grain of her hair.

Perhaps she is wicked and false, and altogether a woman; but when she speaketh ill of herself, just then doth she seduce most.’

When I had said this unto Life, then laughed she maliciously, and shut her eyes. ‘Of whom dost thou speak?’ said she. ‘Perhaps of me?

And if thou wert right — is it proper to say that in such wise to my face! But now, pray, speak also of thy Wisdom!’

Ah, and now hast thou again opened thine eyes, O beloved Life! And into the unfathomable have I again seemed to sink.

Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the maidens had departed, he became sad.

The sun hath been long set, said he at last. The meadow is damp, and from the forest cometh coolness.

An unknown presence is about me, and gazeth thoughtfully. What! Thou livest still, Zarathustra?

Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Whither? Where? How? Is it not folly still to live?

Ah, my friends; the evening is it which thus interrogateth in me. Forgive me my sadness!

Evening hath come on; forgive me that evening hath come on!

Thus sang Zarathustra.