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 more to me than father and mother and everything in the world. Because everything else means nothing to me, if I may only be in your life, if I may only be allowed to love you, and you will be good to me.

You, my only one, my dear one, good-night; my thoughts go out to you with a thousand kisses, ah, may they meet yours.

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HEN I woke up late this morning—because I did not fall asleep till it was almost morning—I said to myself, even before I had opened my eyes: 'This will be a sad day for you.' But in the same moment my eyes met the clear sunshine of the day, there rose within me, like the song of the lark, 'Good-morning, fair maiden, good- morning to all life's delights.'

And I jumped out of bed, looked into the glass, and saw clear eyes, blushing cheeks, and a dimple like a kiss. The whole has been a great surprise to me. A surprise that I am not unhappy, but most of all a surprise because nobody seems to have discovered the slightest change in me.

Therefore, apparently, I must be the same as before. No red cross on my forehead, no black mark on my nose. The same to every one except to myself. For to me it is, as if from the narrow chrysalis, which shrouded life's wonderful meaning, I had flown out to the radiant brightness of revelation, as a butterfly intoxicated with happiness. Before, my walk was heavy, now it is as if I glided lightly