It is the action of the winnower,
When he shovels the wheat
And casts it toward the sky,
Swinging it across the threshing floor.
The chaff falls to his feet, but
The kernel comes at the end.
It's not bad if some gets lost,
Or if sounds of living speech
Fade away. For the work
Of the gods resembles our own:
The Highest doesn't want it
Accomplished all at once.
As mineshafts yield iron,
And Etna its glowing resins,
Ten I'd have the fortune necessary
To make a picture and see
What the Christ was like.
But if somebody hurried along the road
And speaking sorrowfully advanced toward me,
And I were surprised and defenseless,
And if a servant wanted to make an image
Of the god - once I saw the Lord
Of Heaven visibly angered, not
That I was to be something different,
But that I might learn something more.
The Lords are kind, and as rulers they
Most hate deceit, when humans become
Inhuman. But ultimately it's undying Fate
And not they who rule, and their activity
Spins itself out and quickly reaches an end.
If the heavenly procession goes higher
Then the joyful Son of the Highest
Is named, sun-like, by the strong,
Hoelderlin, The God is near, and hard to grasp
