Thursday evening, 8 o'clock. - I make that indent and look out the window.
It is red over the Deister and so bright as if it wanted to be a constant good weather -
and that's the kind of thing that end my health, of which I am very happy now.
My life is now a quiet dream of a weak, but peaceful and contented convalescent,
whose fancy does not bring her into cheerful, happy places,
but which she grazes and refreshes in dark regions,
to which she sometimes denies a wish which she derives from the other side but then revived with grace and warmth.
One often compares human life to a plant - and indeed,
man has much in common with the plant. As long as it grows, it is soft and pliable,
it can be arbitrarily made every position, every shape, directed to everything, if it happens only gradually. -
He is a drive - his limit seems to him to be too narrow. But now he has completed his growth,
now he is stronger - he is calmer, he already finds his limitation. -
So the plant stands before the flower - recovers - and then it breaks from its greatest splendor -
there it stands in its perfection to the pleasure of the Creator, to the joy and delight of all nature. - And this, dear Klärchen, is love,
is the maturity, the perfection of our earthly existence; and as the flower develops the perfection of the fruit,
so -. So beneficial is nature. Their inner warmth, their effective power is bliss and preparation for higher perfections.
How men can be so afraid of the future, how they can torment themselves,
for nature acts so well in us, joy and delight are kindled in us, if only we throw ourselves into her arms,
if only we left to the benevolent animation of the Creator! ...