that was
coming
unto me:
“Take the
children
away,”
cried she,
“such eyes
scorch
children’s
souls.”
They cough
when I
speak:
they think
coughing
an
objection
to strong
winds—they
divine
nothing of
the
boisterousness
of my
happiness!
“We have
not yet
time for
Zarathustra”—so
they
object;
but what
matter
about a
time that
“hath no
time” for
Zarathustra?
And if
they
should
altogether
praise me,
how could
I go to
sleep on
their
praise? A
girdle of
