It was New Year’s Eve. An aged man was standing by a window. He raised
his mournful eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were
floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear calm lake. Then he
cast them on the earth where few more hopeless beings than himself now
moved towards their certain goal—the tomb.
Already he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and had
brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was
destroyed, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid
of comfort.
The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled
the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two
roads—one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile
harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; _the other_ leading the
wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison
flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled.
He looked toward the sky, and cried out in his agony:—“O youth, return!
O, my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, that I may
choose the better way!” But the days of his youth, and his father, had
both passed away.
He saw wandering lights float away over dark marshes and then disappear.
These were like the days of his wasted life. He saw a star fall from
heaven and vanish in darkness. This was an emblem of himself; and the
sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck home to his heart. Then he
remembered his early companions who entered on life with him, but who,
having trod the paths of virtue and of labor, were now honored and happy
on this New Year’s Eve.
In the midst of these thoughts, there sounded suddenly from the
church-tower the music of the New Year, like distant holy hymnings. The
tones falling on his ear recalled his parents’ early love for him, their
erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had
offered up on his behalf. Over-whelmed with shame and grief he dared no
longer look toward that heaven where his father dwelt; his darkened eyes
dropped tears, and with one despairing effort he cried aloud, “Come
back, my early days, come back!”
And his youth _did_ return, for all this was but a dream which visited
his slumbers on New Year’s Eve. He was still young, his faults alone
were real. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own, that he
had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread
the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave.
Ye who still are young, lingering on the threshold of life doubting
which fate to choose, remember that when years are passed and your feet
stumble on the dark mountains, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain,
“O youth, return! O, give me back my early days!”—_Jean Paul Richter._