He confirms my word. Lyrics

My good friend, it is worthy of Providence

To lead the plain to perfect good

And I will tell you, if you only

Do not accuse me of impudent cynicism

That it is the Jesuitism of Providence

To use the mean for good

What is to be understood by the great man

Be it poets of whom one speaks

Philosophers, ministers, generals

Etcetera, whatever one can name

I believe that the great man is he

Who became an instrument in the hands of the Lord

But the fire that burns in his enthusiasm

Is not his own; only inspired

He obeys a power he does not know

And therefore, when he has advanced the goal

As a means, he himself is discarded

But his effect is not thrown on the fire

It is registered in heaven

And in this I must praise our Lord

For his spirit comes into a wretched vessel

Why should he not empty the vessel

When for his plan it has been of use to him

And in this all will judge as I do

In person the genius is a common fool

Vain, weak, a god to himself

Usually incapable of good

And, if one erases inspiration

As a man rarely respectable

And truly - yet, it is strange, Dear

That it is precisely me who proclaims the doctrine

Only the good bestows personality

But the rest of the whole sphere of genius

What an artist creates, a thinker knows

The beautiful, the true, whatever one calls it

Is a foreign striving, by which one falls

Into pantheism up to the neck

The only consolation for the poor wretches

For whom life is made precarious here

As they are separated from their works

The only memorials of their hearts

Is, as they say, the certain hope

That for them an exit is at last open

When, after the person's purification in flames

His work is no longer ashamed of the master

I confess, I cannot understand

How anyone can hope for that

The same is certain, it is a figment of the brain

If one wants to go out where one came in

For as I told you, this gate

Is indeed an entrance for everyone

But an exit and return for no one

And if one goes to those people with questions on the blade

Then they weave another way

But where? and which? yes, that is the thing

I believe even the devil does not know it

There comes a poet! .. He does not see us

He makes my lips sing; listen now

What his song confesses. I dare swear

That in one and all he confirms my word

Mmmmmmmmm