Who however could have humbled himself as thou hast done, with such pride? That uplifteth us ourselves; a refreshment is it, to our eyes and hearts.

To behold this merely, gladly would we ascend higher mountains than this. For as eager beholders have we come; we wanted to see what brighteneth dim eyes.

And lo, now is it all over with our cries of distress! Now are our minds and hearts open and enraptured. Little is lacking for our spirits to become wanton.

There is nothing, O Zarathustra, that groweth more pleasingly on earth than a lofty, strong will; it is the finest growth. An entire landscape refresheth itself at one such tree.

To the pine do I compare him, O Zarathustra, which groweth up like thee — tall, silent, hardy, solitary, of the best, supplest wood, stately —

In the end, however, grasping out for its dominion with strong, green branches, asking weighty questions of the wind, the storm, and whatever is at home on high places —

Answering more weightily, a commander, a victor! Oh, who should not ascend high mountains to behold such growths?

At thy tree, O Zarathustra, the gloomy and ill-constituted also refresh themselves; at thy look even the wavering become steady and heal their hearts.

And verily, towards thy mountain and thy tree do many eyes turn today; a great longing hath arisen, and many have learned to ask: ‘Who is Zarathustra?’

And those into whose ears thou hast at any time dripped thy song and thy honey — all the hidden ones, the lone-dwellers and the twain-dwellers, have simultaneously said to their hearts:

‘Doth Zarathustra still live? It is no longer worth while to live, everything is indifferent, everything is useless; or else — we must live with Zarathustra!’

‘Why doth he not come who hath so long announced himself?’ Thus do many people ask; ‘hath solitude swallowed him up? Or should we perhaps go to him?’

Now doth it come to pass that solitude itself becometh fragile and breaketh open, like a grave that breaketh open and can no longer hold its dead. Everywhere one seeth resurrected ones.

Now do the waves rise and rise around thy mountain, O Zarathustra. And however high be thy height, many of them must rise up to thee: thy boat shall not rest much longer on dry ground.

And that we despairing ones have now come into thy cave, and already no longer despair: it is but a prognostic and a presage that better ones are on the way to thee —

For they themselves are on the way to thee, the last remnant of God among men: that is to say, all the men of great longing, of great loathing, of great satiety —

All who do not want to live unless they learn again to hope — unless they learn from thee, O Zarathustra, the great hope!

Thus spake the king on the right, and seized the hand of Zarathustra in order to kiss it; but Zarathustra checked his veneration, and stepped back frightened, fleeing as it were, silently and suddenly into the far distance. After a little while however, he was again at home with his guests, looked at them with clear scrutinising eyes, and said: