How
young everything was, how kindly, how gracious! the moist freshness of
the grass, the transparent shadows in the courtyards, the strength of
the old cathedral towers, the white edges of the roads. I felt myself a
child; the sap of life mounted again into my veins as it does in plants.
How sweet a thing is a little simple enjoyment! And now, a brass band
which has stopped in the street makes my heart leap as it did at
eighteen. Thanks be to God; there have been so many weeks and months
when I thought myself an old man. Come poetry, nature, youth, and love,
knead my life again with your fairy hands; weave round me once more your
immortal spells; sing your siren melodies, make me drink of the cup of
immortality, lead me back to the Olympus of the soul. Or rather, no
paganism! God of joy and of grief, do with me what Thou wilt; grief is
good, and joy is good also. Thou art leading me now through joy. I take
it from Thy hands, and I give Thee thanks for it.
April 17, 1855.--The weather is still incredibly brilliant, warm, and
clear. The day is full of the singing of birds, the night is full of
stars, nature has become all kindness, and it is a kindness clothed upon
with splendor.
For nearly two hours have I been lost in the contemplation of this
magnificent spectacle.
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