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LIFE

“Good Lord, what do I know of life?” I exclaimed. I cannot help often thinking that it is impossible for me to understand life’s meaning; I am a perfect failure; is there not a hidden joy that I missed where a willow-tree swings? is not there a strange tear that I should shed where a cloud points? Oh! is not there a beatiful love that I could not even dare to dream, where a stream chatters and away hastens? (Pray, stream, stay with me a little longer and speak more clearly to my prosaic mind!) I may have been a mere spectator before the stage of life; at least I have been regarded as such, and late at night when people sleep, early in the morning when people do not rise, I bitterly cry that I could not become a real player. Had I not any art as a player? But I can say, I believe, I had some experience when I thought I was a real player myself, when I pressed a cup of life’s wine, and, in truth, did not know properly what to do with my own body, which was tickled, happy or sad, by an unfamiliar touch