At midnight comes a second noon,
When time again stands still.
The bell rings twelve and all too soon
I feel I've had my fill
Of life - but she knows well I love
Her more than being wise.
Although pure knowledge lies above
Confusion, still it lies.
The poets' gods and overmen
Are wraithlike, pale, and cold —
Like moonlight in comparison
To sunlight's warming gold.
At midnight, fountains of delight
Speak louder than my fate.
Alone I live in unquenched light
I give and generate.
The curse of perfect solitude
Is something that I bless.
I climb above my finitude
To say a sacred Yes.
(cf. Thus Spoke Zarathustra, passim)
Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Nietzsche