Well, well-those are the mournful imaginings of rainy days. When the
sun reappears, the soul grows clear like the sky, and there succeeds to
my brief discouragement a state of mind in which it appears to me so
foolish and so cowardly to fret because I see a change in my face, to
mourn the careless light-heartedness of my youth, to rebel against the
laws of nature in a burst of angry regret, that I am overcome with
shame. I rouse myself, I scramble to my feet, I seize hold of my faith,
my hopes, my intentions, I set to work again with a resolution full of
joyful pride. At such moments I feel strong enough to face the approach
of my thirtieth year, to await with serenity disillusionments, white
hairs, sorrows, infirmities, and old age, my mind's eye fixed upon a
far-off point of light that seems to grow larger as I advance. I march
on with renewed courage; and to the noisy and drunken crew calling out
to me to join them, I answer, No!--and to the knights of the doleful
countenance, who shake their heads and say, "What if it were not true?"
--I answer, without turning my eyes from that distant light, No!--and
to the grave, proud men who point to their books and writings, and say
with a smile of pity and derision, "It is all a dream!"--I answer, with
my eyes still upon that far-off light, and the great cry of a man who
sees a ghost in his path, No! Ah, at such moments, what matters it that
I must grow old and die? I toil, I wait, I believe!