Ah, lieth everything already withered and grey which but lately stood green and many-hued on this meadow! And how much honey of hope did I carry hence into my beehives!
Those young hearts have already all become old and not old even! Only weary, ordinary, comfortable. They declare it: We have again become pious.
Of late did I see them run forth at early morn with valorous steps; but the feet of their knowledge became weary, and now do they malign even their morning valour!
Verily, many of them once lifted their legs like the dancer; to them winked the laughter of my wisdom then did they bethink themselves. Just now have I seen them bent down to creep to the cross.
Around light and liberty did they once flutter like gnats and young poets. A little older, a little colder: and already are they mystifiers, and mumblers and mollycoddles.
Did perhaps their hearts despond, because lonesomeness had swallowed me like a whale? Did their ear perhaps hearken yearningly-long for me in vain, and for my trumpet-notes and herald-calls?
Ah, ever are there but few of those whose hearts have persistent courage and exuberance; and in such remaineth also the spirit patient. The rest, however, are cowardly.
The rest: these are always the great majority, the commonplace, the superfluous, the far-too-many those all are cowardly!
Him who is of my type, will also the experiences of my type meet on the way; so that his first companions must be corpses and buffoons.
His second companions, however they will call themselves his believers will be a living host, with much love, much folly, much unbearded veneration.
To those believers shall he who is of my type among men not bind his heart; in those spring-times and many-hued meadows shall he not believe, who knoweth the fickle faint-hearted human species!
Could they do otherwise, then would they also will otherwise. The half-and-half spoil every whole. That leaves become withered what is there to lament about that!
Let them go and fall away, O Zarathustra, and do not lament! Better even to blow amongst them with rustling winds
Blow amongst those leaves, O Zarathustra, that everything withered may run away from thee the faster!
We have again become pious so do those apostates confess; and some of them are still too pusillanimous thus to confess.
Unto them I look into the eye before them I say it unto their face and unto the blush on their cheeks: Ye are those who again pray!
It is however a shame to pray! Not for all, but for thee, and me, and whoever hath his conscience in his head. For thee it is a shame to pray!
Thou knowest it well: the faint-hearted devil in thee, which would fain fold its arms and place its hands in its bosom, and take it easier this faint-hearted devil persuadeth thee that there is a God!
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