Not yet hath the hour of my last struggle come. Or doth it come this very moment? Verily, round about with insidious beauty sea and life gaze at me.
Oh, afternoon of my life! Oh, happiness before eventide! Oh, harbour on the open sea! Oh, peace in what is uncertain! How I mistrust all of you!
Verily, mistrustful am I of your insidious beauty! I am like unto the lover who mistrusteth a too velvety smile.
As he pusheth before himself the most beloved woman,—tender even in his hardness, the jealous lover—thus I push before me this blissful hour.
Away with thee, thou blissful hour! In thee an involuntary bliss came unto me! Willing to take upon me my deepest pain, here I stand. At the wrong time thou camest!
Away with thee, thou blissful hour! Rather settle down there—with my children! Hurry, and bless them before eventide with my happiness!
There eventide approacheth, the sun sinketh. Gone—my happiness!"
Thus spake Zarathustra. And he waited for his misfortune the whole night; but he waited in vain. The night remained clear and still, and happiness itself drew nigher and nigher unto him. But towards the morning Zarathustra laughed unto his heart saying mockingly: "Happiness runneth after me. That resulteth from my not running after women. Happiness is a woman."
