04.06.2007, 09:19
Arthur Schopenhauer
“T was not the venomed draught of envy’s bowl
That blurred the radiance of thy dædal brain:
Nor did the straight alembic of disdain
Dwarf with dull spell thy soaring vision’s goal:
But sped from nacked wisdom’s starry pole
God’s stern bright angel smote thy lids amain,
And sudden at the master-touch of pain
Contentment’s shape fled stricken from thy soul.
The worn world laboured late in falsehood’s coils
Her lips chill from the lips of graven gods,
Her ears fierce with the clash of jangling creeds:
But thou, dark seer, hast reft her from the toils,
And soothed the purple weals of priesthood’s rods,
And salved each wound of hell that burns and bleeds.
“T was not the venomed draught of envy’s bowl
That blurred the radiance of thy dædal brain:
Nor did the straight alembic of disdain
Dwarf with dull spell thy soaring vision’s goal:
But sped from nacked wisdom’s starry pole
God’s stern bright angel smote thy lids amain,
And sudden at the master-touch of pain
Contentment’s shape fled stricken from thy soul.
The worn world laboured late in falsehood’s coils
Her lips chill from the lips of graven gods,
Her ears fierce with the clash of jangling creeds:
But thou, dark seer, hast reft her from the toils,
And soothed the purple weals of priesthood’s rods,
And salved each wound of hell that burns and bleeds.