At forty years

At forty years, the mountain has been climbed,

we stand still and look back;

there we see our childhood lying quietly,

and there the noisy happiness of youth.

Look once more, and then, strengthened again,

Heft your walking-stick!

Stretching before you is a mountain ridge - a broad one -

and not here, but farther along, it begins to go downward.

Without breathing, you need to climb farther upwards,

for the plain will pull you forward itself;

then it will slope downward imperceptibly with you,

And before you think about it, you will be in port.