ole
period of a life endures no longer than the raindrop needs for falling.
And as for knowing where your life is continued, how your work proceeds,
you cannot attain to that.

And in the night all was still around: nothing was astir; the whole
earth was simple rest, as Gellert sat in his room by his lonely lamp;
his hand lay upon an open book, and his eyes were fixed upon the empty
air; and on a sudden came once more upon him that melancholy gloom,
which so easily resumes its place after more than usual excitement.

It is as though the soul, suddenly elevated above all, must still
remember the heaviness it but now experienced, though that expresses
itself as tears of joy in the eye.

In Gellert, however, this melancholy had a more peculiar phase: a sort
of timidity had rooted itself in him, connected with his weak chest,
and that secret gnawing pain in his head; it was a fearfulness which
his manner of life only tended to increase. Surrounded though he was
by nothing but love and admiration in the world, he could not divest
himself of the fear that all which is most horrible and terrible would
burst suddenly upon him: and so he gazed fixedly before him. He passed
his hand over his face, and with an effort concentrated his looks and
thoughts upon surrounding objects, saying to himself almost aloud:
"How comforting is light! Were there no light from without to illumine
objects for us, we should perish in gloom, in the shadows of night. And
light is a gentle friend that watches by us, and, when we are sunk in
sorrow, points out to us that the world is still here, that it calls,
and beckons us, and requires of us duty and cheerfulness. 'You must not
be lost in self,' it says, 'see! the world is still here:' and a friend
beside us is as a light which illumines surrounding objects; we cannot
forget them, we must see them and mingle with them. How hard is life,
and how little I accomplish! I would fain awaken the whole world to
goodness and to love; but my voice is weak, my strength is insufficient:
how insignificant is all I do!"

And now he rose up and strode across the room; and he stood at the
hearth where the fire was burning, made of wood given to him that very
day, and his thoughts reverted to the man who had given it. Why had he
not asked his name, and where he came from? Perchance he might have been
able in thought to follow him all the way, as he drove home; and now...
but yet 'tis more, 'tis better as it is: it