And verily, O my soul! Who could see thy smiling and not melt into tears? The angels themselves melt into tears through the over-graciousness of thy smiling.

Thy graciousness and over-graciousness is it which will not complain and weep; and yet, O my soul, longeth thy smiling for tears, and thy trembling mouth for sobs.

‘Is not all weeping complaining? And all complaining accusing?’ Thus speakest thou to thyself; and therefore, O my soul, wilt thou rather smile than pour forth thy grief —

Than in gushing tears pour forth all thy grief concerning thy fulness, and concerning the craving of the vine for the vintager and vintage-knife!

But wilt thou not weep, wilt thou not weep forth thy purple melancholy, then wilt thou have to sing, O my soul! Behold, I smile myself, who foretell thee this:

Thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until all seas turn calm to hearken unto thy longing —

Until over calm longing seas the bark glideth, the golden marvel, around the gold of which all good, bad and marvellous things frisk —

Also many large and small animals, and everything that hath light marvellous feet, so that it can run on violet-blue paths —

Towards the golden marvel, the spontaneous bark, and its master: he however, is the vintager who waiteth with the diamond vintage-knife —

Thy great deliverer, O my soul, the nameless one — for whom future songs only will find names! And verily, already hath thy breath the fragrance of future songs —

Already glowest thou and dreamest, already drinkest thou thirstily at all deep echoing wells of consolation, already reposeth thy melancholy in the bliss of future songs!

O my soul, now have I given thee all, and even my last possession, and all my hands have become empty by thee: that I bade thee sing, behold, that was my last thing to give!

That I bade thee sing; say now, say: which of us now — oweth thanks? Better still, however: sing unto me, sing, O my soul! And let me thank thee!

Thus spake Zarathustra.