4O2 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV
of the vine-plant, and in praising them. But when falling asleep, Zarathustra spake thus unto his heart :
" Hush ! hush ! Hath the world not this moment become perfect ? Oh, what happeneth unto me ?
As a neat wind unseen danceth on the panelled sea, light, light as a feather, thus danceth sleep on me.
Nor doth it shut mine eye ; it leaveth my soul awake. Light it is, verily, as light as a feather.
It persuadeth me, I know not how. It toucheth me from the inside with a flattering hand. It com- pelleth me. Yea, compelleth me, so that my soul stretcheth itself out.
How long and weary it groweth unto me, my strange soul ! Did the evening of a seventh day come unto it just at noon? Hath it already walked too long happy among good and ripe things ?
It stretcheth itself out, long, long, longer ! It lieth still, my strange soul. Too many good things it hath tasted before. This golden sadness presseth upon it ; it maketh a wry mouth.
Like a ship that hath entered her calmest bay ; (Now she leaneth towards the land, weary of the long voyages and the uncertain seas. Is not the land more faithful ?
As such a ship putteth to the shore and goeth close in ; then it is enough that a spider spin its thread unto it from the land. No stronger ropes are re- quired there.)
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