But society became vapid to him at last. He was not at his ease. Cards never amused him, and poetical discussion became painful. "I have not written a long while" he writes to his friend Riese. "Forgive me. Ask not after the cause! It was not occupation, at all events. You live contented in Marburg; I live so here. Solitary, solitary, quite solitary. Dear Riese, this sohtude has awakened a certain sadness in my soul:
"'It is my only pleasure
Away from all the world,
To lie beside the streamlet,
And think of those I love.'
But contented as I am, I still feel the want of old companions. I sigh for my friends and my maiden, and when I feel that my sighs are vain —
"'Then fills my heart with sorrow, —
My eye is dim;
The stream which softly passed me
Roars now in storm.
No bird sings in the bushes,
The zephyr which refreshed me
Now storms from the north,
And whirls off the blossoms.
With tremor I fly from the spot,—
I fly, and seek in deserted streets
Sad solitude.'
Yet how happy I am, quite happpy! Horn has drawn me from low spirits by his arrival. He wonders why I am so changed.
"'He seeks to find the explanation,
Smiling thinks o'er it, looks me in the face;
But how can he find out my cause of grief?
I know it not myself.'
But I must tell you something of myself:
"'Quite other wishes rise within me now,
Dear friend, from those you have been wont to hear.
