“He comes from the mountain, he stands in the grove!Our own eyes have seen it: the wine that he woveFrom water, the corpses he wakens.”

O could you but hear it, at midnight my laugh:My hour is striking; come step in my trap;Now into my net stream the fishes.

The masses mass madder, both numbskull and sage;They root up the arbours, they trample the grain;Make way for the new Resurrected.

I’ll do for you everything heaven can do.A hair-breadth is lacking – your gape too confusedTo sense that your senses are stricken.

I make it all facile, the rare and the earned;Here’s something like gold (I create it from dirt)And something like scent, sap, and spices –

And what the great prophet himself never dared:The art without sowing to reap out of airThe powers still lying fallow.

The Lord of the Flies is expanding his Reich;All treasures, all blessings are swelling his might . . .Down, down with the handful who doubt him!

Cheer louder, you dupes of the ambush of hell;What’s left of life-essence, you squander its spellsAnd only on doomsday feel paupered.

You’ll hang out your tongues, but the trough has been drained;You’ll panic like cattle whose farm is ablaze . . .And dreadful the blast of the trumpet.