THE DRUNKEN SONG 471
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God's woe is deeper, thou strange world ! Grasp for God's woe, not for me ! What am I ? A drunken sweet lyre.
A midnight-lyre, a bell-toad, understood by no one, but compelled to speak, before deaf ones, ye higher men ! For ye understand me not !
Gone ! Gone ! Oh, youth ! Oh, noon ! Oh, after- noon ! Now evening and night and midnight have cgme. The dog howleth, the wind.
Is the wind not a dog? It whimpereth, barketh, howleth. Alas ! alas ! How midnight sigheth ! How it laugheth, how it rattleth and panteth, midnight !
How it now speaketh soberly, this drunken poet ! Did it overdrink its drunkenness? Did it become over-wakeful ? Doth it ruminate ?
It ruminateth upon its woe in dream, the old deep midnight. And it still more ruminateth upon its de- light. For delight, if woe be deep, be deep already deeper is still than woe delight.
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Thou vine-plant! Why praisest thou me? Did I not cut thee? I am cruel, thou bleedest. What meaneth thy praise of my drunken cruelty ?
'Whatever hath become perfect, all that is ripe,
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