Collected Works (Vol. I)

TANNHAUSER 253 This is the evil destiny of man: The desperate plan Made by the Ancient One, to keep His power. Limits He set, made space unsearchable Yet bounded, made time endless to transcend Man's thought to comprehend : Builded the Tower | Of life, and girded it with walls of hell, The name of Death. This limit in all things Baffles the spirit wings, Chains the swift soul; for even Death is bound. In its apparent amplitude I saw, I, who have slept through death, have surely found The old accurséd law, And death has changed to life. alone Shoots to the starry throne : That if man lack not purpose, but succeed, Reaching in very deed Impersonal existence ;—Lo! Man is made one with God, an equal soul. For he shall know The harmony, the oneness of the Whole. This task Vain, The Star of the Unconquered This was my purpose. Ah vain! Will Centred its vehemence and light, to stain In one successful strain The stainless sphere of the unchangeable, With its own passionate, desperate breath Ever confronting the dark gate of Death. I passed that gate! O pitiful! The same Mystery holds me, and the flame Of Life stands up, unbroken citadel, Beyond my sight, vague, far, intangible. Broken are will, and witchery, and prayer. Remains the life of earth, which is but hell, Destiny’s web, and my immense despair. LANDGRAVE. Your words are terrible! We knew them true Even while you sang. But see! the light of day ! Beauty in all things and—-for you—true love! All the blind horror of the song recedes. There is a sequel; is there not, my friend? Of love, your theme, we have not heard a note. TANNHAUSER. That is a question. I am not so sure My song was not entirely to that end. WOLFRAM. Yes, poet, true one that you are indeed ! You show us the dilemma of the soul, The Gordian knot Love only hews asunder. TANNHAUSER. Or—shall I say ?—-soothes only, bandages, Not heals the sore of Destiny? WOLFRAM. No, certes, But substitutes for one reality Another—and a lovely pleasant one. TANNHAUSER. Existence is illusion after all’; Man, a bad joke; and God, mere epigram ! If we must come tothat. And likewise love. LANDGRAVE. You have dipped somewhat in philosophy Of a too cynical and wordv sort. TANNHAUSER. To logic there is one reality, © Words. But the commonsense of humankind By logic baffles logic, chains with Deed The lion Thought. It is a circle, friends ! All life and death and mystery ravel out Into one argument—the rounded one. THE UNKNOWN MINSTREL. Count me your children their arithmetic ! Zero, the circle, grows to one, the line: Both limitless in their own way. Proceed.