Faust I 398-417
God, how these walls still cramp my soul, This cursèd, stifling prison-hole Where even heaven’s dear light must pass Dimly through panes of painted glass! Hemmed in by books to left and right Which worms have gnawed, which dust-layers choke, And round them all, to ceiling-height, This paper stained by candle-smoke, These glasses, boxes, instruments, All stuffed and cluttered anyhow, Ancestral junk—look at it now, Your world, this world your brain invents! And can you still ask why your heart Is pent and pining in your breast, Why you obscurely ache and smart, Robbed of all energy and zest? For here you sit, surrounded not By living Nature, not as when God made us, but by reek and rot And mouldering bones of beasts and men.
translated by: David Luke