Faust

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Poetry is not simply a fashion of expression: it is the form of expression absolutely required by a certain class of ideas. Poetry, indeed, may be distinguished from Prose by the single circumstance, that it is the utterance of whatever in man cannot be perfectly uttered in any other than a rhythmical form: it is useless to say that the naked meaning is independent of the form: on the contrary, the form contributes essentially to the fullness of the meaning.

What I possess, I see far distant lying, And what I lost, grows real and undying.

MERRY-ANDREW Posterity! Don't name the word to me! If I should choose to preach Posterity, Where would you get contemporary fun? That men will have it, there's no blinking: A fine young fellow's presence, to my thinking, Is something worth, to every one. Who genially his nature can outpour, Takes from the People's moods no irritation; The wider circle he acquires, the more Securely works his inspiration. Then pluck up heart, and give us sterling coin! Let Fancy be with her attendants fitted,— Sense, Reason, Sentiment, and Passion join,— But have a care, lest Folly be omitted!

Who bids the storm to passion stir the bosom? In brooding souls the sunset burn above? Who scatters every fairest April blossom Along the shining path of Love?

In motley pictures little light, Much error, and of truth a glimmering mite, Thus the best beverage is supplied, Whence all the world is cheered and edified.

In opening buds a marvel woke, As I the thousand blossoms broke, Which every valley richly bore me! I nothing had, and yet enough for youth— Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth. Give, unrestrained, the old emotion, The bliss that touched the verge of pain, The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion,— O, give me back my youth again!

The words you've bandied are sufficient; 'Tis deeds that I prefer to see: In compliments you're both proficient, But might, the while, more useful be.

Life somewhat better might content him, But for the gleam of heavenly light which Thou hast lent him: He calls it Reason—thence his power's increased, To be far beastlier than any beast.

What will you bet? There's still a chance to gain him, If unto me full leave you give, Gently upon my road to train him!

Book of Job

As long as he on earth shall live, So long I make no prohibition. While Man's desires and aspirations stir, He cannot choose but err.

My thanks! I find the dead no acquisition, And never cared to have them in my keeping. I much prefer the cheeks where ruddy blood is leaping, And when a corpse approaches, close my ...

A good man, through obscurest aspiration, Has still an instinct of the one true way.

Agreed! But 'tis a short probation. About my bet I feel no trepidation. If I fulfill my expectation, You'll let me triumph with a swelling breast: Dust shall he eat, and with a zest, As did a certain snake, my near relation.

I like, at times, to hear The Ancient's word, And have a care to be most civil: It's really kind of such a noble Lord So humanly to gossip with the Devil!

I've studied now Philosophy And Jurisprudence, Medicine,— And even, alas! Theology,— From end to end, with labor keen; And here, poor fool! with all my lore I stand, no wiser than before:

Most zealously I seek for erudition: Much do I know—but to know all is my ambition.

As goes the crowd, I follow.

THE FIRST No, Brother! not for me their formal ways. Quick! lest our game escape us in the press: The hand that wields the broom on Saturdays Will best, on Sundays, fondle and caress.

And overladen, nigh to sinking, The last full wherry takes the stream.

WAGNER To stroll with you, Sir Doctor, flatters; 'Tis honor, profit, unto me. But I, alone, would shun these shallow matters, Since all that's coarse provokes my enmity. This fiddling, shouting, ten-pin rolling I hate,—these noises of the throng: They rave, as Satan were their sports controlling. And call it mirth, and call it song!

PEASANTS, UNDER THE LINDEN-TREE (Dance and Song.) All for the dance the shepherd dressed, In ribbons, wreath, and gayest vest Himself with care arraying: Around the linden lass and lad Already footed it like mad: Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! The fiddle-bow was playing. He broke the ranks, no whit afraid, And with his elbow punched a maid, Who stood, the dance surveying: The buxom wench, she turned and said: "Now, you I call a stupid-head!" Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! "Be decent while you're staying!" Then round the circle went their flight, They danced to left, they danced to right: Their kirtles all were playing. They first grew red, and then grew warm, And rested, panting, arm in arm,— Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! And hips and elbows straying. Now, don't be so familiar here! How many a one has fooled his dear, Waylaying and betraying! And yet, he coaxed her soon aside, And round the linden sounded wide. Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! And the fiddle-bow was playing.

Among these vales and hills surrounding, Worse than the pestilence, have passed. Thousands were done to death from poison of my giving; And I must hear, by all the living, The shameless murderers praised at last!

Two souls, alas! reside within my breast, And each withdraws from, and repels, its brother.

Salamander, shine glorious! Wave, Undine, as bidden! Sylph, be thou hidden! Gnome, be laborious!

Vanish in flaming ether, Salamander! Flow foamingly together, Undine! Shine in meteor-sheen, Sylph! Bring help to hearth and shelf. Incubus! Incubus! Step forward, and finish thus!

Part of that Power, not understood, Which always wills the Bad, and always works the Good.

MEPHISTOPHELES I am the Spirit that Denies! And justly so: for all things, from the Void Called forth, deserve to be destroyed: 'Twere better, then, were naught created. Thus, all which you as Sin have rated,— Destruction,—aught with Evil blent,— That is my proper element.

For Devils and for spectres this is law: Where they have entered in, there also they withdraw. The first is free to us; we're governed by the second.

The lord of rats and eke of mice, Of flies and bed-bugs, frogs and lice, Summons thee hither to the door-sill, To gnaw it where, with just a morsel Of oil, he paints the spot for thee:— There com'st thou, hopping on to me!

FAUST A knock? Come in! Again my quiet broken? MEPHISTOPHELES 'Tis I! FAUST Come in! MEPHISTOPHELES Thrice must the words be spoken. FAUST Come in, then!

This life of earth, whatever my attire, Would pain me in its wonted fashion. Too old am I to play with passion; Too young, to be without desire.

Omniscient am I not; yet much is known to me.

Cursed be, at once, the high ambition Wherewith the mind itself deludes! Cursed be the glare of apparition That on the finer sense intrudes! Cursed be the lying dream's impression Of name, and fame, and laurelled brow! Cursed, all that flatters as possession, As wife and child, as knave and plow! Cursed Mammon be, when he with treasures To restless action spurs our fate! Cursed when, for soft, indulgent leisures, He lays for us the pillows straight! Cursed be the vine's transcendent nectar,— The highest favor Love lets fall! Cursed, also, Hope!—cursed Faith, the spectre! And cursed be Patience most of all!

CHORUS OF SPIRITS (invisible) Woe! woe! Thou hast it destroyed, The beautiful world, With powerful fist: In ruin 'tis hurled, By the blow of a demigod shattered! The scattered Fragments into the Void we carry, Deploring The beauty perished beyond restoring. Mightier For the children of men, Brightlier Build it again, In thine own bosom build it anew! Bid the new career Commence, With clearer sense, And the new songs of cheer Be sung thereto!

Here, an unwearied slave, I'll wear thy tether, And to thine every nod obedient be: When There again we come together, Then shalt thou do the same for me.

The There my scruples naught increases. When thou hast dashed this world to pieces, The other, then, its place may fill. Here, on this earth, my pleasures have their sources; Yon sun beholds my sorrows in his courses; And when from these my life itself divorces, Let happen all that can or will!

STUDENT My own disgust is strengthened by your speech: O lucky he, whom you shall teach! I've almost for Theology decided.

Horns the he-goat wears! The grapes are juicy, the vines are wood, The wooden table gives wine as good! Into the depths of Nature peer,— Only believe there's a miracle here!

SIEBEL (drinks carelessly: the wine spills upon the earth, and turns to flame) Help! Fire! Help! Hell-fire is sent! MEPHISTOPHELES (charming away the flame) Be quiet, friendly element! (To the revellers) A bit of purgatory 'twas for this time, merely.

False word and form of air, Change place, and sense ensnare! Be here—and there!

My friend, take proper heed, I pray! To manage witches, this is just the way.

Down with it quickly! Drain it off! 'Twill warm thy heart with new desire: Art with the Devil hand and glove, And wilt thou be afraid of fire?

MEPHISTOPHELES But now, leave jesting out of sight! I tell you, once for all, that speed With this fair girl will not succeed; By storm she cannot captured be; We must make use of strategy.

The Church alone, beyond all question, Has for ill-gotten goods the right digestion."

Fix and arrange it to my will; And on her neighbor try thy skill! Don't be a Devil stiff as paste, But get fresh jewels to her taste!

The proverb says: One's own warm hearth And a good wife, are gold and jewels worth.

MARGARET (half aloud) He loves me—loves me not.

I'd ask you, longer here to tarry, But evil tongues in this town have full play. It's as if nobody had nothing to fetch and carry, Nor other labor, But spying all the doings of one's neighbor: And one becomes the talk, do whatsoe'er one may.

My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore! Save I have him near. The grave is here; The world is gall And bitterness all. My poor weak head Is racked and crazed; My thought is lost, My senses mazed. My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore! To see him, him only, At the pane I sit; To meet him, him only, The house I quit. His lofty gait, His noble size, The smile of his mouth, The power of his eyes, And the magic flow Of his talk, the bliss In the clasp of his hand, And, ah! his kiss! My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore! My bosom yearns For him alone; Ah, dared I clasp him, And hold, and own! And kiss his mouth, To heart's desire, And on his kisses At last expire!

MARGARET (returning home) How scornfully I once reviled, When some poor maiden was beguiled! More speech than any tongue suffices I craved, to censure others' vices. Black as it seemed, I blackened still, And blacker yet was in my will; And blessed myself, and boasted high,— And now—a living sin am I! Yet—all that drove my heart thereto, God! was so good, so dear, so true!