And then the Witch of Endor cried, “I see!”

Gripping her arm, the King demanded, “Who?”

She stared straight out; her look described what he

had known would be there. Like her, he saw, too:

one by whose tongue he never would be whipped

again: “Why plague me while I slept?

While Heaven's curse is on you still,

and you are shunned in silence by the Lord,

you look for victory from my mouth? And will

you have me tell each tooth that's left me? I

have nothing more… .” He wisped away. The crone,

hands clasped before her face, stifled her cry

as if all were foreseen: “Lay down your sword.”

And Saul (who for forever had succeeded,

a towering banner to his people)? He

fell down before her, and would dare no plea,

so sure he was he'd be defeated.

But she who had so beaten down his will,

still hoped (though he'd not tasted food for days).

As if she'd stored up just so he would graze

no more, she baked bread, found a calf to kill,

and brought him to it to sit down and eat.

Now all came down to this one thing at last.

Like one who had forgotten much, he sat.

Then like a starving serf, Saul broke his fast.

Ein Prophet

Ausgedehnt von riesigen Gesichten,

hell vom Feuerschein aus dem Verlauf

der Gerichte, die ihn nie vernichten, —

sind die Augen, schauend unter dichten

Brauen. Und in seinem Innern richten

sich schon wieder Worte auf,

nicht die seinen (denn was wären seine

und wie schonend waren sie vertan),

andre, harte: Eisenstücke, Steine,

die er schmelzen muß wie ein Vulkan,

um sie in dem Ausbruch seines Mundes

auszuwerfen, welcher flucht und flucht;

während seine Stirne, wie des Hundes

Stirne, das zu tragen sucht,

was der Herr von seiner Stirne nimmt:

Dieser, Dieser, den sie alle fänden,

folgten sie den großen Zeigehänden,

die Ihn weisen wie Er ist: ergrimmt.