“And why these questions, my dearest? The poet and the man are one, and the utterances of the poet’s lips are the thoughts of the man; when he consecrates an enthusiastic hymn to love, while at your side, be assured that it is addressed to you!”
He laid his arm around her neck, and drew her head to his breast, as he had so often done before in hours of tenderness. But Charlotte felt that there was, nevertheless, a difference between then and now: the arm that embraced her did not rest on her neck with the same warm pressure as of yore. She, however, repressed the sigh that had nearly escaped her lips, nestled closer to his bosom, and whispered in low tones: “Frederick, your hymn has found an echo in my heart; Frederick, I am very grateful to God for your love!”
He was silent, his only response was a warmer pressure of the arm entwined around her neck. Then both were silent. Deep stillness reigned; it seemed as though Nature were holding divine service in her green halls under the dome of heaven; at first with silent prayer, then a joyous song of praise resounded from the hidden chorus in the foliage of the tall trees, until the breeze rustled through the leaves in holy organ-tones, and silenced the feathered songsters.
To these deep organ-tones, to this rustling of the wind in the foliage, listened the two lovers, who sat there on the little rustic bench in a trance of delight and devotion. Both were silent, and yet so eloquent in their silence. He, with his pale countenance turned upward, gazing intently at the blue dome of heaven, as though seeking to fathom its mysteries; she, with her head resting on his bosom, seeking no other, now that she had found this heaven. But the wind now rustled through the trees in deeper and more solemn tones, and awakened Charlotte from her sweet repose. A leaf torn from the branches by the wind was borne against her cheek; it glided over her face like the touch of a ghostly finger, and fell into her hands, which lay folded in her lap. She started up in alarm, and looked down at this gift of the wind and trees.
They had given her a withered, discolored leaf. Like the harbinger of coming autumn had this withered leaf touched her face, and rudely awakened her from her heavenly summer dream.
“A bad omen,” she murmured, tearing the leaf to pieces with her trembling fingers.
“What does this murmuring mean, Charlotte?” asked Schiller, who had been completely absorbed in his own thoughts, and had not observed this little by-play in the great tragedy of the heart. “What alarmed you so suddenly?”
“Nothing, it is nothing,” said she, rising. “Come, my friend, let us go; I fear that a storm is gathering in the heavens.”