impressively, more completely, than ever words could touch it.
Christopher got downstairs without knowing how: below, he threw down the
extra logs of wood, which he had kept back, with a clatter from the
wagon, and then drove briskly from the city. Not till he arrived at
Lindenthal did he allow himself and his horses rest or food. He had
driven away empty: he had nothing on his wagon, nothing in his purse;
and yet who can tell what treasures he took home; and who can tell what
inextinguishable fire he left behind him yonder, by that lonely scholar!

Gellert, who usually dined at his brother's, today had dinner brought
into his own room, remained quite alone, and did not go out again: he
had experienced quite enough excitement, and society he had in his own
thoughts. Oh! to find that there are open, susceptible hearts, is a
blessing to him that writes in solitude, and is as wondrous to him as
though he dipped his pen in streams of sunshine, and as if all he wrote
were Light. The raindrop which falls from the cloud cannot tell upon
what plant it drops: there is a quickening power in it, but for what?
And a thought which finds expression from a human heart; an action, nay,
a whole life is like the raindrop falling from the cloud: the whole
period of a life endures no longer than the raindrop needs for falling.
And as for knowing where your life is continued, how your work proceeds,
you cannot attain to that.

And in the night all was still around: nothing was astir; the whole
earth was simple rest, as Gellert sat in his room by his lonely lamp;
his hand lay upon an open book, and his eyes were fixed upon the empty
air; and on a sudden came once more upon him that melancholy gloom,
which so easily resumes its place after more than usual excitement.

It is as though the soul, suddenly elevated above all, must still