Infinite, priding herself upon her sorry triumph, and singing joyously her lofty and sublime hymn to Death!
Oh, how terrible it is, when the Soul is victorious! How terrible!
The weather has changed very suddenly; it is nearly as warm as in summer, and the leaves seem to have turned yellow with heat.
I am coming home from the office, alone and forsaken by all.
I am dreaming (like a dream indeed it is) of the boundless fields, the picturesque ridges, the dark forests and fragrant meadows of Klosow. I see the park, too, with its neatly-trimmed shrubberies and lofty trees; their bare trunks and leafy tops forming a canopy high overhead under the sky, and the foliage turning yellow or red in the sunny glare. The pond, too, do I see—so large that it may be called a lake—the pond, bleak and desolate in the moonless, starless night; that night, when I broke away from the magic spell of Life, and slew my own felicity with my own hands.
Before my eyes, people are walking along the avenues, strewn with dry dead leaves. The slightest breath of air brings down from
