And let the stream of my love sweep into unfrequented channels! How should a stream not finally find its way to the sea!
Forsooth, there is a lake in me, sequestered and self-sufficing; but the stream of my love beareth this along with it, down—to the sea!
New paths do I tread, a new speech cometh unto me; tired have I become— like all creators—of the old tongues. No longer will my spirit walk on worn-out soles.
Too slowly runneth all speaking for me:—into thy chariot, O storm, do I leap! And even thee will I whip with my spite!
Like a cry and an huzza will I traverse wide seas, till I find the Happy Isles where my friends sojourn;—
And mine enemies amongst them! How I now love every one unto whom I may but speak! Even mine enemies pertain to my bliss.
And when I want to mount my wildest horse, then doth my spear always help me up best: it is my foot’s ever ready servant:—
The spear which I hurl at mine enemies! How grateful am I to mine enemies that I may at last hurl it!
Too great hath been the tension of my cloud: ‘twixt laughters of lightnings will I cast hail-showers into the depths.
Violently will my breast then heave; violently will it blow its storm over the mountains: thus cometh its assuagement.