As 't were two summer days in one,
Two Sundays come together,
Our rays united make one sun,
With fairest summer weather.
As surely as the sunset in my latest November shall translate me
to the ethereal world, and remind me of the ruddy morning of
youth; as surely as the last strain of music which falls on my
decaying ear shall make age to be forgotten, or, in short, the
manifold influences of nature survive during the term of our
natural life, so surely my Friend shall forever be my Friend, and
reflect a ray of God to me, and time shall foster and adorn and
consecrate our Friendship, no less than the ruins of temples. As
I love nature, as I love singing birds, and gleaming stubble, and
flowing rivers, and morning and evening, and summer and winter, I
love thee, my Friend.
But all that can be said of Friendship, is like botany to
flowers. How can the understanding take account of its
friendliness?
Even the death of Friends will inspire us as much as their lives.
They will leave consolation to the mourners, as the rich leave
money to defray the expenses of their funerals, and their
memories will be incrusted over with sublime and pleasing
thoughts, as monuments of other men are overgrown with moss; for
our Friends have no place in the graveyard.
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