and the serpent — likewise the cave of Zarathustra and the big cool moon, and the night itself. Zarathustra, however, laid his hand upon his mouth for the third time, and said:

Come! Come! Come! Let us now wander! It is the hour: let us wander into the night!

3

Ye higher men, it is getting on to midnight; then will I say something into your ears, as that old clock-bell saith it into mine ear —

As mysteriously, as frightfully and as cordially as that midnight clock-bell speaketh it to me, which hath experienced more than one man —

Which hath already counted the smarting throbbings of your fathers’ hearts — ah, ah, how it sigheth! How it laugheth in its dream, the old, deep, deep midnight!

Hush! Hush! Then is there many a thing heard which may not be heard by day; now however, in the cool air, then even all the tumult of your hearts hath become still —

Now doth it speak, now is it heard, now doth it steal into overwakeful, nocturnal souls: ah, ah, how the midnight sigheth, how it laugheth in its dream!

Hearest thou not how it mysteriously, frightfully and cordially speaketh unto thee, the old deep, deep midnight?

O man, take heed!

4

Woe to me! Whither hath time gone? Have I not sunk into deep wells? The world sleepeth —

Ah! Ah! The dog howleth, the moon shineth. Rather will I die, rather will I die, than say unto you what my midnight-heart now thinketh.

Already have I died. It is all over. Spider, why spinnest thou around me? Wilt thou have blood? Ah! Ah! The dew falleth, the hour cometh —

The hour in which I frost and freeze, which asketh and asketh and asketh: ‘Who hath sufficient courage for it?

Who is to be master of the world? Who is going to say: Thus shall ye flow, ye great and small streams!’

The hour approacheth: O man, thou higher man, take heed! This talk is for fine-ears, for thine ears — what saith deep midnight’s voice indeed?

5

It carrieth me away, my soul danceth. Day’s-work! Day’s-work! Who is to be master of the world?

The moon is cool, the wind is still. Ah! Ah! Have ye already flown high enough? Ye have danced; a leg, nevertheless, is not a wing.

Ye good dancers, now is all delight over; wine hath become lees, every cup hath become brittle, the sepulchres mutter.

Ye have not flown high enough; now do the sepulchres mutter: ‘Free the dead! Why is it so long night? Doth not the moon make us drunken?’