A poet was absent-mindedly strumming on his inspired lyre. He sang - in the meantime around the cold and haughty people uninitiated listened to him inanely. And so the stupid rabble had a chat about him:"Why so loudly he sings? In vain striking our ears, what is he driving at? What is he plinking about? What subjects does he teach us? Why as a wayward sorcerer does he excite us to torments? His song is free like a wind, like a wind it is fruitless. What is the benefit to us of it?"
Shut up you, senseless people, day laborers, slaves of both needs and cares! For me your bold murmuring is obnoxious, you are the earthworms, but not the sons of heaven. If you'd like something it's only the profit - you even estimate the worth of the sculpture of Apollo Belvedere in its weight. You don't know the use of it. But after all, this marble is a deity! .. What of that? You appreciate still higher a kitchen pot, because in it you make your cooking.
But if you're heaven's darling, then would you, a divine messenger, be so good as to use your gift for our benefit: will you please improve the hearts of your fellow citizens. We are timid, we are cunning, shameless, wicked, ungrateful; our hearts are as cold as the ones of eunuchs, slanderers, toads, fools; a bundle of vices takes root in us. You could, for the sake of love to your neighbors, give us your daring lessons, whereas we would heed your advice.
Be off! What concern for you is it of a pacific poet? Stagnate safely in depravity, the voice of lyre won't revive you! Like coffins you are nasty for my soul. Up to now for your stupidity and malice you had whips, dungeons, axes; - for you even is enough of crazy slaves! In your cities, they sweep the litter on bustling streets - well, useful work! - However, whether the priests, forgetting both their ministry and their altar, and their sacrifice, take brooms from you? We are born not for worldly excitement, not for greed, not for battles, but for the sake of inspiration, for the sake of both the sweet sounds and the prays.
Shut up you, senseless people, day laborers, slaves of both needs and cares! For me your bold murmuring is obnoxious, you are the earthworms, but not the sons of heaven. If you'd like something it's only the profit - you even estimate the worth of the sculpture of Apollo Belvedere in its weight. You don't know the use of it. But after all, this marble is a deity! .. What of that? You appreciate still higher a kitchen pot, because in it you make your cooking.
But if you're heaven's darling, then would you, a divine messenger, be so good as to use your gift for our benefit: will you please improve the hearts of your fellow citizens. We are timid, we are cunning, shameless, wicked, ungrateful; our hearts are as cold as the ones of eunuchs, slanderers, toads, fools; a bundle of vices takes root in us. You could, for the sake of love to your neighbors, give us your daring lessons, whereas we would heed your advice.
Be off! What concern for you is it of a pacific poet? Stagnate safely in depravity, the voice of lyre won't revive you! Like coffins you are nasty for my soul. Up to now for your stupidity and malice you had whips, dungeons, axes; - for you even is enough of crazy slaves! In your cities, they sweep the litter on bustling streets - well, useful work! - However, whether the priests, forgetting both their ministry and their altar, and their sacrifice, take brooms from you? We are born not for worldly excitement, not for greed, not for battles, but for the sake of inspiration, for the sake of both the sweet sounds and the prays.
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