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200 sense of happiness — an indistinct memory of something blessed — as if thou hadst cast from afar off a smile upon my slumber. At night I was so sad; not a blossom that had not closed itself up as if never more to open to the sun; and the night itself, in the heart as on the earth, has ripened the blossoms into flowers. The world is beautiful once more, but beautiful in repose — not a breeze stirs thy tree — not a doubt my soul!"