What hath befallen me? Hark! Hath time flown away? Do I not fall? Have I not fallen — hark, into the well of eternity?

What happeneth to me? Hush! It stingeth me — alas — to the heart? To the heart! Oh, break up, break up, my heart, after such happiness, after such a sting!

What? Hath not the world just now become perfect? Round and ripe? Oh, for the golden round ring — whither doth it fly? Let me run after it! Quick!

Hush — (and here Zarathustra stretched himself, and felt that he was asleep.)

Up! said he to himself, thou sleeper! Thou noontide sleeper! Well then, up, ye old legs! It is time and more than time; many a good stretch of road is still awaiting you —

Now have ye slept your fill, for how long a time? A half-eternity! Well then, up now, mine old heart! For how long after such a sleep mayest thou — remain awake?

(But then did he fall asleep anew, and his soul spake against him and defended itself, and lay down again) — Leave me alone! Hush! Hath not the world just now become perfect? Oh, for the golden round ball!

Get up, said Zarathustra, thou little thief, thou sluggard! What! Still stretching thyself, yawning, sighing, falling into deep wells?

Who art thou then, O my soul! (And here he became frightened, for a sunbeam shot down from heaven upon his face.)

O heaven above me, said he sighing, and sat upright. Thou gazest at me? Thou hearkenest unto my strange soul?

When wilt thou drink this drop of dew that fell down upon all earthly things? When wilt thou drink this strange soul —

When, thou well of eternity! Thou joyous, awful, noontide abyss! When wilt thou drink my soul back into thee?

Thus spake Zarathustra, and rose from his couch beside the tree, as if awakening from a strange drunkenness: and behold, there stood the sun still exactly above his head! One might, however, rightly infer therefrom that Zarathustra had not then slept long.