July 18, 1808.

* * * Yesterday evening I went up the Rochus mountain alone and wrote thee thus far; then I dreamed a little, and when I came to myself I thought the sun was just going down, but it was the rising moon.  I was astonished and should have been afraid, but the stars wouldn’t let me—­these hundreds of thousands and I together on that night.  Who am I, then, that I should be of raid?  Am I not numbered with them?  I didn’t dare descend and, besides, I shouldn’t have found a boat to cross in.  The nights aren’t so very long now, anyway, so I turned over on the other side, said “good night” to the stars and was soon fast asleep.  Now and then I was awakened by flitting breezes, and then I thought of thee.  As often as I awoke I called thee to me and always said in my heart:  “Goethe be with me, that I may not be afraid.”  Then I dreamed that I was floating along the reedy banks of the Rhine, and where it is deepest between black rocky cliffs the ring thou gavest me slipped off.  I saw it sinking deeper and deeper till it reached the bottom.  I wanted to call for help, but then I awoke in the radiance of the morning, rejoicing that the ring was still on my finger.  Ah, prophet, interpret my dream for me!  Anticipate fate, and let no dangers beset our love after this beautiful night when, betwixt fear and joy, in counsel with the stars, I thought of thy future!

* * * No one knows where I was—­and, even if they did, could they imagine why I was there?  Thou tamest toward me through the whispering forest, enveloped in a soft haze, and when thou wert quite near me my tired senses could not endure it, so strong was the fragrance of the wild thyme.  Then I fell asleep—­it was so beautiful—­all blossoms and fragrance!  And the great boundless host of stars and the flickering silver moon that danced near and far upon the stream, the intense stillness of nature in which one hears all that stirs—­ah, I feel my soul implanted here in this nocturnal trembling!  Future thoughts are blossoming here; these cold dew-pearls that weigh down grass and herbs, from these the spirit grows!  Oh, it hastens to blossom for thee, Goethe!  It will unfold its gayest colors before thee!  It is for love of thee that I wish to think, that I struggle with the inexpressible.  Thou lookest upon me in spirit and thy gaze draws thoughts from me, and then I am often compelled to say things I do not understand but only see.

The spirit also has senses.  Just as there is much that we only hear, or only see, or only feel, so there are thoughts which the spirit also perceives with only one of these senses.  Often I only see what I am thinking; often I only feel it, and when I hear it I experience a shock.  I do not know how I come by this knowledge which is not the fruit of my own meditation.  I look about me for the author of this opinion and then conclude that it is all created from the fire of love.  There is warmth in the spirit; we feel it; the cheeks glow from our