Unhappy being that I am! Why do I thus deceive myself? What is to come
of all this wild, aimless, endless passion? I cannot pray except to her.
My imagination sees nothing but her: all surrounding objects are of no
account, except as they relate to her. In this dreamy state I enjoy many
happy hours, till at length I feel compelled to tear myself away from
her. Ah, Wilhelm, to what does not my heart often compel me! When I have
spent several hours in her company, till I feel completely absorbed by
her figure, her grace, the divine expression of her thoughts, my mind
becomes gradually excited to the highest excess, my sight grows dim,
my hearing confused, my breathing oppressed as if by the hand of a
murderer, and my beating heart seeks to obtain relief for my aching
senses. I am sometimes unconscious whether I really exist. If in such
moments I find no sympathy, and Charlotte does not allow me to enjoy
the melancholy consolation of bathing her hand with my tears, I feel
compelled to tear myself from her, when I either wander through the
country, climb some precipitous cliff, or force a path through the
trackless thicket, where I am lacerated and torn by thorns and briers;
and thence I find relief. Sometimes I lie stretched on the ground,
overcome with fatigue and dying with thirst; sometimes, late in the
night, when the moon shines above me, I recline against an aged tree
in some sequestered forest, to rest my weary limbs, when, exhausted
and worn, I sleep till break of day. O Wilhelm! the hermit's cell, his
sackcloth, and girdle of thorns would be luxury and indulgence compared
with what I suffer. Adieu! I see no end to this wretchedness except the
grave.