part of ourselves. Tell him things . He'll stand more astonished: as you did beside the roper in Rome or the potter in Egypt. Show him how happy a thing can be, how guileless and ours; how even the moaning of grief purely determines on form, serves as a thing, or dies into a thing, - to escape to a bliss beyond the fiddle. These things that live on departure understand when you praise them: fleeting, they look for rescue through something in us, the most fleeting of all. Want us to change them entirely, within our invisible hearts into - oh, endlessly - into ourselves! Whosoever we are. Earth, is it not just this that you want: to arise invisibly in us? Is not your dream to be one day invisible? Earth! invisible! What is your urgent command, if not transformation? Earth, you darling, I will! Oh, believe me, you need no more of your spring-times to win me over: a single one, ah, one, is already more than my blood can endure. Beyond all names I am yours, and have been for ages. You were always right, and your holiest inspiration is Death, that friendly Death. Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future are growing less.... Supernumerous existence wells up in my heart.