Sublime

The moon, which is the lovelier memory or reflex of the down-gone sun, the joyous day seen in the faint mirror of the brooding night, had rapt me away.

The old man pondered for a long while. Then he rose, placed his hand on Knecht’s hair, and said softly, as if awakening from a dream: “When I die, my spirit will fly into the moon. By then you will be a man and need a wife. My daughter Ada will be your wife. When she has a son by you, my spirit will return and dwell in your son, and you will call h