The dark, distressing days have come....
One's own maladies, the ailments of those dear to him, cold and the
gloom of old age. Everything which thou hast loved, to which thou hast
surrendered thyself irrevocably, collapses and falls into ruins. The
road has taken a turn down hill.
But what is to be done? Grieve? Lament? Thou wilt help neither thyself
nor others in that way....
On the withered, bent tree the foliage is smaller, more scanty--but the
verdure is the same as ever.
Do thou also shrivel up, retire into thyself, into thy memories, and
there, deep, very deep within, at the very bottom of thy concentrated
soul, thy previous life, accessible to thee alone, will shine forth
before thee with its fragrant, still fresh verdure, and the caress and
strength of the springtime!
But have a care ... do not look ahead, poor old man!
July, 1878.