Prometheus - A poem by Goethe
Shroud your heaven, Zeus,
With cloudy vapours,
And do as you will,
like the boy
That beheads thistles,
With oak-trees and mountain-tops;
You must my Earth
Now abandon to me,
And my hut, which you did not build,
And my hearth,
Whose glow
You begrudge me.
I know of nothing poorer
Under the sun, than you, Gods!
You barely nourish
–By sacrificial
offerings
And prayerful exhalations–
Your Majesty,
And would starve, were
Not children and beggars
Hopeful fools.
When I was a child,
And did not know the
in or out,
I turned my wandering eyes toward
The sun, as if beyond it there were
An ear to hear my lament,
A heart like mine,
To take pity on the
afflicted.
Who helped me
Against the Titans' mischief?
Who delivered me
from Death,
From Slavery?
Did you not
accomplish it all yourself,
Holy, burning Heart?
And glowed, young
and good,
Deceived, your
thanks for salvation
To the sleeping one above?
I should honour you? For what?
Have you softened
the sufferings,
Ever, of the burdened?
Have you stilled the
tears,
Ever, of the
anguished?
Was I not forged as
a Man
By almighty Time
And the eternal
Fate,
My masters and yours?
Do you somehow
imagine
I should hate life,
Flee to the desert,
Because not every
Flowering dream may bloom?
Here I sit, forming people
In my image;
A race, to be like me,
To suffer, to weep,
To enjoy and delight
themselves,
And to mock you –
As I do!
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