4

Friends, ye are there! Woe me⁠—yet I am not He whom ye seek? Ye stare and stop⁠—better your wrath could speak! I am not I? Hand, gait, face, changed? And what I am, to you my friends, now am I not?

5

Am I an other? Strange am I to Me? Yet from Me sprung? A wrestler, by himself too oft self-wrung? Hindering too oft my own self’s potency, Wounded and hampered by self-victory?

6

I sought where-so the wind blows keenest. There I learned to dwell Where no man dwells, on lonesome ice-lorn fell, And unlearned Man and God and curse and prayer? Became a ghost haunting the glaciers bare?