The proud free glance, the thinker’s mighty brow,
The curling locks and supple, slender limbs,
The eye that speaks dominion, victor’s smile--
All these I know. By them I hail thee Man,
Lord of the earth. Thou art the woman’s slave,
And yet her master....
I know thee when about thy sunburnt thighs
Thou swing’st the tawny skin a tiger wore
Till thy rude weapon dashed him to the ground.
I know thee also when thy shoulders bear
The purple mantle of an emperor,
Stained with the blood of thousand tiny lives;
The golden sandals clasped upon thy feet;
Thy hair made rich with spikenard, and thy brow
Graced with the gifts that mutual east and west
Conspire to offer to their sovereign lord.
I know thee too in lust’s relentless rage,
Dragging the chosen woman to thy lair,
To frame upon her body at thy will
Sons in thine image, strong of loin as thou:
And when, the bearer of thy father’s sins,
Within the portals of the House of Shame
Monstrous delight thy passion seeks to find
In futile quest, and Nature pitiful
Will not transmit unto the future’s womb
Thy weakened generation....
Image of God I know thee--God thyself.
Walking the world on India’s sun-parched plains
Thy name was Rama; thou in desert sands
Of Araby didst dream thy wondrous dream;
The cradles of all races thou hast seen--
Thou Zarathustra--thou the Son of Man!
I know the wounds of hands and feet and side....
Ah, and I know the ring about thy neck
Of ruddy curls! Say, Judas, in thine ear
Make they sweet music still, the silver coins,
As on the day the temple’s veil was rent?
So, in the far-stretched background of all time
I watch thy progress through the sounding years--
Wielding the sceptre here, and there the lyre,
The lord or servant of thy master-passion,
Pure or polluted, fool or nobly wise.
And this it is that justifies the whole,
This is thy greatness: thou hast stumbled oft,
And straying often fallen. Yet all the while,
Wandering the stony wilderness of life,
Thine eyes were fixed upon the steadfast star
That far-off stands above the Promised Land.
Rough is the road, beset by mocking heavens
And false illusory hells--the strong, the weak
Alike by dancing fires are led astray,
And poisoned flowers bloom rankly on the path.
Self in the guise of selfishness approached,
Frailty in garment of a god benign;
Pleasure with lying accents “I am sin”
Proclaimed, and vice, “I am bold action” cried;
“I am contentment,” spoke the belly full,
And the applause of groundlings, “I am fame.”
And so it came that only here and there
In all the years a strong, unerring one
Plucked boldly at the flowers of brief delight,
Yet by the dust of tumult unconfused
Pressed on to reach the goal; the strong man’s goal:
To rule and to enjoy, to hold command
Over both’ things and spirits, to enjoy
All pleasant sounds and all sweet gifts, yet strive
Untiring, ever upward to that sun
Which no world-master’s blind despotic will,
But his own hand, with more than Titan strength,
Unto the utmost firmament has flung.