this he must be acquainted with her. This is why he loves
her so well. This is why he strays by the brook and weeps. This is
why in spring he goes out into the fields of blossoms, and his eyes
run over with tears. All creation fills him with yearning and
delight. He goes from mountain to valley like a man in a dream. When
he sees a stream, he follows its course; when a hill, he must climb
it; when a river--oh! if only he could rush with it to the sea! A
rock--oh! to look down from its crags to the land below! A hawk
hovers over him--oh! to have its wings and fly so much nearer to the
stars! He stands for hours looking at a flower or moss, throws
himself down on the grass and decks his hat with ivy and cornflowers.
He goes by moonlight to visit the graves and think of death,
immortality, and eternal life. Nothing hinders his meditations. He
sees everything in relation to something else. Every visible object
has an invisible companion, so ardently, so entirely, so closely does
he feel it all.'

This, coming straight from life, tells us more than a volume of odes;
it contains the real feeling of the time, sensitive, dreamy, elegiac.

His friend goes on: 'He walks often and likes it, but generally looks
for sunny places; he goes very slowly, which is fatal for me, for I
run when I walk ... Often he stands still and silent, as if there
were knots which he could not untie (in his thoughts). And truly
there are unknown depths of feeling as well as thought.'

In another place: 'He went out and gloated over the great scene of
immeasurable Nature. Orion and the Pleiades moved over his head, the
dear moon was opposite. Looking intently into her friendly face, he
greeted her repeatedly: "Moon, Moon, friend of my thoughts; hurry not
away, dear Moon, but stay. What is thy name? Laura, Cynthia, Cyllene?
Or shall I call thee beautiful Betty of the Sky?" ... He loved
country walks; we made for lonely places, dark fearsome thickets,
lonely unfrequented paths, scrambled up all the hills, spied out
every bit of Nature, came to rest at last under a shady rock ...
Klopstock's life is one constant enjoyment. He gives himself up to
feeling, and revels in Nature's feast ... Winter is his favourite
time of year....[11] He preaches skating with the unction of a
missionary to the heathen, and not without working miracles, ... the
ice by moonlight is a feast of the Gods to him ... only one rule, we
do not leave the river till the moon has gone.'